


Three Steps from the Sky

by bunnyofnegativeeuphoria



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Roach (The Witcher), Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Horse Girl Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Quest: Cabaret, Quest: The Last Wish, References to Witcher 3 Quests, Roach Has the Brain Cell (The Witcher), Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Two grown men apologise to each other, horse theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyofnegativeeuphoria/pseuds/bunnyofnegativeeuphoria
Summary: When the days shorten and the trees shrug off their rusty coats Jaskier knows it is time to head towards Oxenfurt. They are somewhere in Temeria on their way to the little village of Anchor. Any day now, Geralt will feel a particular chill in the air and instinctively steer them towards the Pontar. There, Jaskier will steel himself and make some noise about the cold or the stinginess of the crowd – a prelude to his annual soliloquy about how it is about time he heads towards the harbouring arms of the university and its candelabra’d comforts: sans dirt, sans drowner guts, and sans Witcher.He strums his lute and sings, “Oh White Wolf, I fear if you do not hear my plea for an ear to my woe, I shall have to go bare, and just so we’re clear, my pants’ll be the first things to go.”Roach huffs, and a coin comes sailing towards him, hitting him in the forehead.“Fucking ow, you fuck.”Geralt snorts. “Just tossing a coin to my barker.”Jaskier is going to miss him so much.***Dear Reader, I present to you a tale of love, the value of faith and communication, and quite a ridiculous amount of horse content.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 146
Kudos: 523
Collections: Best Geralt, The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	Three Steps from the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captnsunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnsunshine/gifts).



“Geralt?”

When the days shorten and the trees shrug off their rusty coats Jaskier knows it is time to head towards Oxenfurt. They are somewhere in Temeria on their way to the little village of Anchor. Any day now, Geralt will feel a particular chill in the air and instinctively steer them towards the Pontar. There, Jaskier will steel himself and make some noise about the cold or the stinginess of the crowd – a prelude to his annual soliloquy about how it is about time he heads towards the harbouring arms of the university and its candelabra’d comforts: sans dirt, sans drowner guts, and sans Witcher. 

Sans Witcher who is currently not paying him any attention at all the curmudgeonly old embodiment of modern-day chivalry for the common folk. 

“Geraaalt.”

Nothing – only the sound of hooves on the uneven road and the creaking of leather tack. He trudges along after Roach. 

“Geeeeeeralt.”

“Hmm?”

“Ah, so you have conversed before. I never knew that about you.”

The Witcher turns around and stares impassively at him. “How bravely you speak, Bard, when your throat is within grasping distance.”

“And yet I am unharmed.”

Geralt turns around again with a huff. “Balls.”

The broad back of the Witcher is straight and comfortable in the saddle, but where Jaskier would normally be all admiration, the sight now only serves to remind him of the inevitable. At the riverbed they will part – Jaskier to the west and Geralt to the north to where only a select few are welcome. Though they will migrate back into each other’s lives by Imbolc, the days apart tear at him more and more each year. The soles of his boots have worn thin, and the rocky ground is hard and unyielding. He wants. He wishes to be brave. He hopes Geralt will invite him to Kaer Morhen. He knows he will not ask. 

They are many savaeds and a rescued princess past Geralt’s apology, and their Path has been smoother and gentler. But Jaskier dares not ask. Geralt has been nothing but cautious with words and solicitous in action, but Jaskier fears. For Geralt does not know how deep the ache goes – does not know how his entire self steals the air from Jaskier’s lungs with the force of everything he cannot have.

“I’m bored,” he says instead of the truth.

“And that’s my problem bec–”

“Correct.”

“Hmm.”

He strums his lute and sings, “ _Oh White Wolf, I fear if you do not hear my plea for an ear to my woe, I shall have to go bare, and just so we’re clear, my pants’ll be the first things to go_.”

Roach huffs, and a coin comes sailing towards him, hitting him in the forehead.

“Fucking _ow_ , you fuck.” 

Geralt snorts. “Just tossing a coin to my barker.”

Jaskier is going to miss him _so much_.

They journey around a bend and further up an incline. From the hill, they can just about make out a village in the distance, small and unassuming. The trail there is littered with dead leaves and the odd pile of animal dung. It’s a sure sign of how long they’ve walked that the sight is mostly welcoming. 

A shooting pain runs up his leg. “Fuck.”

“Hmm?”

“Cramp. Leg.” Jaskier hobbles over to Roach, chances his luck that she won’t bite him, and leans against her as he stretches out his muscles. She doesn’t bite him, but her ears flick backwards in warning. He strokes her neck. “Sorry, darling.”

A thump sounds as Geralt dismounts and makes his way to stand by Roach’s head. Immediately, her ears prick forwards again, and she nips at Geralt’s hair. “Shh. Don’t bite the bard.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She would.” Geralt turns his amused eyes to Jaskier but frowns abruptly. “Are you alright?”

“Grand. Just need to –” He leans his boot lightly up against Roach’s hoof and leans forward, feeling the deep stretch in his calf. 

“We pushed too hard today.”

“It’s fine.” 

“We’ll be there in another half an hour.” He pats Roach’s noble neck but doesn’t move to get back on her. “I’ve rested enough for whatever contract’s ahead. We can slow down.” 

The last thing he wants is to hold them back. He shakes his leg out. “See?” But Roach has had enough and she nudges him forward forcefully with her nose. 

“Madam Menace,” he mutters and follows Geralt. The Witcher whistles for Roach, and they start their plodding descent towards Anchor. 

***

“Got a contract.”

Jaskier looks up from his aimless strumming. “Lovely! What for?” In the brief time Geralt had been downstairs talking to the innkeeper, Jaskier had managed to spread his notebooks all over the bed.

“Sounds like a vampire. Don’t know what kind yet.”

“Ooo. Sharp fangs, pale skin, and a terrible yet sexy accent.”

Geralt sits down on the bed, taking out a piece of parchment.

“Real sexy. It’ll suck you so dry the only hard-on you’ll ever have again will be in your dreams.” 

Jaskier plucks at the bottom string in thought. 

“I bet I could suck – ow.”

Geralt withdraws his arm without even looking up from the parchment he is reading. Jaskier bumps his shoulder into Geralt in retaliation, but the mountain of a man doesn’t even do him the courtesy of budging an inch.

“I can hear it now.” He strums his lute in deliberate threat. “ _The young man went a-looking deep into the woods: a wanderer down on his luck_.”

When there is no response, Jaskier strums harder. “ _This next part is shocking for within the woods a foul creature was rearing to fuck._ ”

Geralt snorts as he continues to read. “Your best work, truly.” 

Jaskier winces and casts a glance to the side. His green leather notebook lies open, its pages empty save some scribbles as aimless as his meandering thoughts. He’s wrung dry of anything save the odd rhyming couplet. 

Dark leather creaks beside him. Two sword sheaths lie against the mattress straw. White hair flickers in the invisible draft breezing in through the closed window. His fingers twitch towards his quill, leaking as it is onto the bedspread. There is nothing lacking in his muse. 

The Witcher shifts in his seat, tucking a hair behind his ear.

On the contrary. But to indulge… That way lies the coast and the mountain – the salty breeze and the rocky climb. He could write that. But then what would be left? There’s a howl scratching at the door. What else would escape into the air? 

He tries instead to conjure up the demand of the populace: images of dragons, tragic chivalry, and courtly love. 

“Fuck.” Geralt rises with a deep frown to root through his pack. He pulls out various flasks of potions and decoctions, hands strong and capable. There’s a particularly attractive vein going up his hand that Jaskier knows continues up his forearm as well.

Jaskier desperately needs inspiration of a different kind lest he never earns his keep again. The people want faceless romance and the victorious dead not notes writ in the red ink of a bleeding heart for Geralt of Rivia. 

“So where are we going?”

“You’re not coming.”

“Of course, of course. You’ll go and I’ll follow. Where am I following you to then?”

“It’s not what I thought it was. Could be a higher vampire.”

“Yes? And I’m a higher calibre of mankind. We’ve dealt with katakans before, what does it matter?”

“Too dangerous.”

“Cock and arsebiscuits. Don’t be such a triptaker. I’m coming.” He gets up.

Geralt gets up too, frowning harder. _My Gods, but he’s beautiful._

“Jaskier, don’t be a fool.”

“The only fool here is you if you think I’ll let the Ballad of the Bloody Baron slip away from me.” 

“It’ll be the Ballad of the Bloody Bard if you do come,” Geralt growls. _Rude_. “This isn’t like your stories. Higher vampires are not mindless ekkimaras. They don’t seek your blood to survive. If they want it they want it for pleasure. Granted, not all higher vampires are trouble. Most live out their near immortality in peace.”

“That’s settled then.”

“ _But_ this time there are missing villagers and too little information for it to be safe for –”

“I’m coming with –”

“Will you list–”

“No, you thrice-damned boulder of a man I shan’t! I’m your barker – I’m the one that gets others to listen to you.”

“Jaskier –”

“I had to stay behind the last time it was something exciting – a _griffin_ of all things!”

“A _nesting_ griffin with –”

“We’ve had nothing but ghouls and drowners for the last five weeks! I’m not exactly made of coin and neither are you, and the people want new material, Geralt!”

“Shut up and listen.” Geralt ignores Jaskier’s noise of indignation. “They can turn invisible, have incredible strength, and can control humans and animals alike. But they are also prey to what ails all men: avarice, lust, and malice. Three villagers have gone missing, the poor and the wealthy. I don’t know what this one wants, but it is nothing good. I want you nowhere near it.”

Geralt stares him down. And maybe it’s Jaskier who is wrong. Maybe he should listen. But they are light of coin, and he hasn’t been able to pull his weight in weeks. His feet still ache from walking, and as does his back. It didn’t do that before. 

“What is life without risk? I need new inspiration, and this is just the thing!”

Refusing to just _see_ , Geralt takes a menacing step towards him. “Dammit, Jaskier, for once will you listen to me? You will not be coming. If I have to hogtie you to make sure you don’t follow me then I will. This is not like all the other times. If it _is_ a higher vampire then I can’t guarantee your safety. My silver won’t work on it. It may regenerate. Even a witcher cannot kill a higher vampire. They are rare, and a direct encounter where you leave alive is rarer still. There is acceptable risk, but this is not. _You_ are not.”

His protectiveness feels cruel; there’s a tease in the air – a scintillating scent of something he can’t claim. Want claws at his chest, and he needs something _else_ lest he does something he can never take back. He throws his arms wide.

“Fine. But this can’t continue forever. If you won’t let me go with you so I can earn my way then –”

Stance relaxing now, Geralt says, “You don’t have to earn it. And I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Oh, and in four words and a couple of grunts I expect. As charming as I find your lack of verbosity – and believe me I do – it does my writing no good.” He cracks a smile and jokes, “One of these days I might have to seek out a hero that’s more talkative.”

Immediately, Geralt’s shoulders stiffen, and his gaze shutters. Where before there was fire there is now nothing. A controlled nothing. The acid in Jaskier’s stomach roils as he watches Geralt turn away from him and reach for his bottles and pack.

“Geralt, I’m –”

“Will you stay here, lock the door, and not open it until I’m back?” Back into the pack goes the red-black vampire oil and the tell-tale round-bottom flask of Swallow. 

Jaskier’s eyes burn, and there’s a scream perched under his chin he doesn’t have the right to let loose.

“Geralt...”

A sharp turn, and Geralt is staring at him, face unreadable. “Will you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you _promise_?”

“ _Yes_. Yes, I promise.”

Without another glance at him, Geralt grabs his swords and leaves the room. The door closes gently behind him, but Jaskier doesn’t hear him leave.

He forces himself to move and locks the door. It clicks into place; only then does he hear heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway, leaving him alone.

There’s a cold feeling running up and down his spine. A shiver is alert at the base of his neck, but his limbs are locked. He itches for a distraction – anything but this. There are seven parallel lines in the board beneath his feet. One is interrupted by a knot, and the distorted circles around it make it look like an eye. It stares back at him. He can’t move from the weight of what he did. The echoes of the words shaped without care linger in the stale air of the room and the specks of dust that catch in the beam of fading sunlight. 

He stands there until his shadow lengthens across the room and swallows it whole.

***

A soft knock on the door cuts through the air well after midnight, and Jaskier startles awake from where he’d fallen asleep at the desk, bandages and ointments laid out in all his pessimism. 

For perhaps the first time, he hesitates at the door. Shame, ugly and giant, dwarfs him.

The knocking sounds again. 

“It’s done.” Geralt sounds tired. 

He unlocks the door. Geralt stands there, blood in his hair and eyes blackened by toxicity. Whole. He feels Geralt’s eyes on him and finds he cannot hold the gaze.

He steps away from the door to let Geralt in. The Witcher comes. There’s a tear in his gambeson, and he’s favouring his right leg. The door shuts behind him.

“Hi,” he says. It’s not nearly enough. A thousand apologies kneel in his throat, but they’re blocked by fear of what form they might take. He’s read himself through the hallowed libraries of Oxenfurt, but now that he needs them the most his words swim as if in a school, breaking apart and scattering at every attempt to grasp at them only to reform just out of his reach. 

He has to try. 

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Geralt says roughly, setting his swords and pack down. 

“For saying such horrid things of course.” His nails bite into his hands from how hard he clenches them.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.

“Leave off, bard.” There’s a warning in Geralt’s voice, but Jaskier has to –

“No! We need to talk about this. I have to apolog–”

“You _need_ to be quiet. For once, will you listen when I ask you to be?” He sighs heavily. “I am tired, and all I want is some bloody peace.”

He wants to push. Now that he has begun, the words are coming now without order or thought. Anxiety sits on his chest and robs him of breath and control. He knows he must apologise, but Geralt doesn’t want to hear it. How can he make it right if Geralt doesn’t want to hear it – if all Geralt wants is the absence of his voice? But it’s his fault. The tension in the room – rigid and sharp as steel and silver – is his fault. There’s a gulf he wants to bridge with all of his soul, but Geralt doesn’t want him to try. 

_Be quiet. For once, will you listen when I ask you to be?_

He nods.

Geralt turns away and begins to remove his armour. Automatically, Jaskier starts forward. He clears his throat and reaches for the black pauldrons, but Geralt shifts away. Geralt shifts away and Jaskier’s heart breaks.

“I don’t need your help.” 

The soft words cut like knives. But it’s true. Jaskier’s arm drops, and he sits down heavily on the chair. Geralt removes his gear, technique and expertise in every motion. A flick of his wrist casts a warm blaze of Igni over the surface of the nearby washbowl. Silence eats away at their time together as he watches Geralt wash away the blood from his face and hair. 

Heat gathers at the corner of his eyes, and he has to look down. Time is running through his hands like water. The wind howls outside, and they’re at the cusp of a parting. Geralt will see him safely to the Pontar, but if Jaskier can’t earn his forgiveness there will be no reunion come the spring thaw. 

How many times has he joked about leaving? How many times has he said he would take up with another adventurer? How many times has he said it because he didn’t think Geralt would respond? How many times has he said it to cover for how most of his songs these days are poorly concealed declarations for the unobtainable?

The joke had rolled out of him quick and easy as a viper’s tongue. It was nothing he hadn’t said before. Geralt usually ignores him. His words regularly run out of his mouth before his sense has the opportunity or will to stop them. Geralt usually doesn’t even respond. He usually doesn’t care.

Only he does care. Geralt is hurt. In the last decade, never has he refused Jaskier’s help after a battle. But he has now. He doesn’t want what Jaskier offers – doesn’t want him to touch him even through layers of armour. Geralt is hurt. To be hurt one needs to care in the first place, but the knowledge that Geralt’s care for him is real and felt – that Jaskier has the power to hurt him – is bitter and leaden in his chest. 

A grunt has him looking up again. Geralt’s shirt is on the floor. Amidst chiseled muscle and scar tissue a new cut pierces the Witcher’s stomach, and a bruise covers the entirety of his left side as if he’s been thrown through the air and wrapped around a pillar.

All at once, he remembers the tear in the gambeson and the limp. 

“Are you alright?” 

Geralt ignores him and peers at the cut.

“Will you need stitches?” He fumbles for the needle and thread.

“No.”

He abandons the needle. “A-at the very least you need to clean it. And what of your thigh? Here, let me look at –”

“No.” Geralt pats at the wound with a washcloth. It comes away bright red, but at least there are no other colours. Jaskier holds out the ointment, but his offering hovers in midair unacknowledged like a child whose parents are too busy for them; he wants to stomp his foot in sheer frustration but knows he hasn’t the right to. He wants to cry. He is at once five years old again and his favourite cat has died and the world narrows down to only this day and hour where tomorrow does not exist because there is only a hurt he cannot comprehend and a world he can never go back to.

Geralt hisses. The wound bleeds sluggishly. Jaskier reaches out once more, this time holding the bandages. Geralt’s arm stretches towards him only to flinch back again as he favours his side with a grunt. Jaskier starts forward, but once again he’s denied by a sharp gesture.

His eyes sting and he vibrates with anxiety. He wants it resolved now. He wants to hear his sentence.

“Let me help you.”

Geralt doesn’t even look at him. “Don’t. I haven’t the energy for the words you’ll want in exchange.”

It’s too much, and it leaks from his eyes unbidden and inelegant. He wipes at his face hastily with his shirtsleeve. 

“I know you’re angry with me and you have every right to be, but you’re hurt, and I want to help you”.

“It’ll heal.”

“I know it will, but you’re in pain _now_ and –” 

Geralt snaps, “Bard, if you don’t stop talking I will say more things we’ll both regret.” 

Jaskier covers his face with his hands, pressing down hard and painful. “I already regret everything I said before so you may as well say your piece.” 

The Witcher shakes his head. “I won’t.” 

“Say it. I deserve to hear it.” 

“No, you don’t.” Geralt exhales deeply, but now he just looks sad. “A hurt doesn’t another hurt remove.” 

More tears leak out of him, and he’s a mess of snot and ugly, cut-off whimpers. They stand for several minutes in limbo. Jaskier breathes harshly and haltingly. He wants to say sorry again, but he doesn’t think Geralt would thank him for it – especially not now that Geralt’s shoulders are hunched, and he can’t seem to make himself look at Jaskier crying.

He wishes abruptly that Geralt could just live inside him; he would be able to see Jaskier’s muscles as they contract in an embrace of all that Geralt is, the nerves as they spark at every touch and stutter at every gaze held, and – deep within Jaskier – the place where a garden of words grows dedicated only to him.

“Please.” Blood trickles down Geralt’s side, glistening crimson and making the air taste of iron. “Please just let me.” His lip wobbles again, and he bites it still. 

Geralt grits his teeth and limps to the bed. He accepts Jaskier’s help to sit but retracts his arm almost immediately once seated. Jaskier pretends it doesn’t sting and hovers anxiously whilst Geralt sluggishly removes his boots and trousers. Pale thighs – strong and thick – come into view. Jaskier would normally bask in the glory that is Geralt, but now he can barely look for fear of being caught – unwanted and undeserving as he is. But then Geralt winces: a long tear runs down the length of his right thigh in the shape of a talon. His dark leathers have hidden it, but without them the thigh is a mess of blood and torn flesh. 

“ _Gods_ , Geralt, why didn’t you –” He swallows. “What do you need?”

“Swallow.” 

The black lines have receded to just around the Witcher’s eyes, but Jaskier picks up the White Honey from the pack as well. He hands the potions over, and Geralt’s tiny nod at seeing the bottle of clear, viscous liquid is everything. He catches a whiff of the sweet scent before he collects the rest of his supplies.

Geralt’s eyes slowly return to a golden hue – more metal than warmth – as the toxicity purifies. He downs the Swallow as well and lets Jaskier take the bottles in exchange for a candlestick; Igni flashes a hair’s breadth from Jaskier’s cheek, but he doesn’t flinch, as Geralt’s sure hands have never done him wrong. Another Igni aimed at the refilled washbowl boils the water, and a gentle Aard cools it to Witcher levels. They sit in silence: one on the bed and the other on the floor. The ache surrounds them both like a fog, and somewhere along their path a foglet lurks, intent on watching them as they are lured by doubt into the boggy marshlands to drown.

The candle helps. Geralt holds it steady, and it lights the way as Jaskier uses the sterile water to flush out the thigh wound. He feels the muscles tense beneath his grip and wants to soothe the pain with gentle hands. 

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Hmm.”

Routine guides him through the unknown quiet. Geralt does need stitches, and Jaskier sews the wound closed and bandages it. Moving on to Geralt’s side, he cleans the area but determines the cut will heal by the morning. Despite himself, he revels in the proof of life beneath his fingers as Geralt’s torso expands with every breath.

A large hand touches his. Jaskier jumps and snatches his hand back from where it had been lost in gentling ointment into Geralt’s bruised skin. His cheeks burn, and he’s at once bone tired. 

“Rest. I’ll take care of this.” 

Jaskier turns around to clean up. He pauses and then grabs his bedroll, but when he turns around Geralt hasn’t moved.

“What?”

Geralt looks at him. “Take the bed.”

“What? No. Not a chance. Have you not seen your leg? ‘Take the bed’ he says.” 

“Jaskier, I’ll be medita–”

“No. You don’t get to monopolise decision making just because I’m a horri–” he swallows down the bile in his throat. “Please,” he says instead because it had worked the other times. Before Geralt has the chance to respond, he lays out the bedroll and shuffles inside it, curling up into a ball. A full minute passes, but then he hears the bed shift and creak. The air shifts slightly above his head, and the lights go out with an elegant gesture of Geralt’s hand. 

Though his body is filled with lead and his mind is in chaos, sleep eludes him. Gradually, his eyes adjust to the darkness. It’s not a Witcher’s sight, but he can make out the shape of Geralt’s boots just half a meter before him and Roach’s saddle leaning against the wall. 

Will Geralt be there when he wakes up in the morning?

He nuzzles his face into the bedroll and smells leather and pine. _Geralt_. He’s grabbed the wrong one on accident, but he’ll allow himself this one comfort as his thoughts drag him under.

Has Geralt ever left him? Truly left him? Not even a fortnight after the Mountain, he’d collected his coin from the tavern patrons when the Witcher had emerged from the shadow of a pillar to ask quietly if they might talk. The mighty White Wolf had stood before him and stuttered his way through an apology. When Jaskier’s own doubts had hunched his shoulders and bitten his words short and sharp, had Geralt not come back the next day to apologise again, unable to even look Jaskier in the eyes? 

Geralt has been nothing but careful since. And Jaskier… The want pinches his lungs when he breathes and sits attentively at the tip of his tongue when he sings. His days and dreams are filled with white hair and furrowed brows. He sees every quirk of the Witcher’s lips when a child is brave enough to speak to him. He knows of every discount he gives those for whom coppers must stretch growing limbs thin and leave stomachs empty. He notices how the Witcher – feared feller of monsters that he is – will sometimes circle them back to places in Velen and Novigrad to check on two spritely godlings. 

Geralt was a master at his craft long before Jaskier first met him, and Geralt will continue to protect those in need for centuries after Jaskier is gone. 

And yet…

Geralt has spent most of his life swallowing every prejudice, discourtesy, and stoning he’s ever received at the hands of the world. Until Jaskier met him, he had never even had a friend besides his fellow Wolves. 

Half the continent must know the metre and melody of Jaskier’s love. But Geralt?

Has he ever even told Geralt that he likes him?

He curls up tighter, unkind thoughts scratching at the door until he can stay awake no longer, exhausted by the very thought of himself.

***

The sun peaks through tatty curtains and makes the backs of Jaskier’s eyelids glow orange. He frowns and burrows deeper under his covers, feeling the straw mattress shift beneath him. Eyes shooting open, he finds Geralt in his braies and black shirt, kneeling on the bedroll in a healing trance. There’s a fire going in the hearth already so Jaskier feels brave enough to sit up. Something falls off his shoulder, and he glances down to find Geralt’s cloak. It’s too early to cry again, but he sits there for several minutes just staring at the man on the floor. 

The bandage around his thigh is slightly speckled with blood but looks fine otherwise. Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s stomach, but he does look cleaner than last night so he must be well enough to have washed up, donned a new shirt, and _tucked Jaskier into bed_. All he wants to do is sit there and stare miserably at his best friend and his stupid big heart, but nature calls, and he reluctantly puts his boots on, gets up, and makes for the door. 

He relieves himself in the communal privy of dubious smells and heads downstairs. After ordering two bowls of oatmeal, he sits at a table to wait. The inn is near deserted save for two men in a corner booth who are already deep in their cups. Through the window, he can see villagers going about their business with a spring in their steps that hadn’t been there when they’d walked into Anchor the day before. Yesterday, there had been nary a soul to see, and only the inn had been open for business. 

Jaskier half wants to stay down here in the communal space and not have to face Geralt’s kindness – for kind he will be if this morning was any indication. Jaskier fears the kindness – fears the distance it may create and the politeness that should never be. He wants the comfort of what they were before. 

A child runs laughingly past the window. The little girl runs straight into the arms of her father, clearly overjoyed to be outside again. The man catches her with ease and swings her up into the air. She squeals with delight, entirely unafraid. Entirely trusting. 

Guilt comes thick and fast, clinging to his throat like tar. Geralt does not trust him. Jaskier’s been so busy keeping his all-in lifetime commitment to Geralt under wraps like an ugly secret that he’s managed to convince Geralt that he doesn’t even value him as a friend. His best friend. How _can_ he wish for things to be the way they were? 

They have to be better. He doesn’t know how or even whether Geralt will let him try, but he knows he has to make things better. 

“Wonderful ain’t it?” He startles as two bowls are placed in front of him. The innkeeper pays him no mind. “Been a ghost town here the last weeks. Thank the Gods for your Witcher. I don’t much care for his sort in truth, but can’t deny he’s done us all a favour.” The innkeeper claps her hands together. “Right then. Witcher paid last night. I want you out by noon if you don’t mind,” she says and then breezes out of Jaskier’s life as quickly as she’d come. 

He wants to go after her to ask her exactly what she’d meant by “his sort”, but steam is rising temptingly from the bowls, and he wants Geralt to have his breakfast whilst it’s still warm.

***

“Fucking bollocks,” he says as he trips over the door jamb. The Witcher is still deep in meditation, however, and doesn’t so much as twitch. _He doesn’t feel threatened._ It’s heartening to see that this, at least, is as it should be. 

Jaskier takes the bowls over to the desk and rummages around in their bags for an apple and a jar of honey from the comb Geralt had burned off a tree last week. He cuts up the apple and adds both the little luxuries to their porridge. He stirs an extra dollop of honey into Geralt’s because he is shameless, feels like an arse, and will use any and all boons he can get his hands on.

“Geralt,” he says quietly. Quick as anything, Geralt’s eyes open and find his own. The Witcher’s face is unreadable, but he looks calm. Jaskier swallows. “Here.” Geralt’s eyes rest on him for a moment longer, but he takes the bowl with a small nod. Jaskier counts his blessings but doesn’t want to push it, retreating to the corner desk to eat his share. 

The room smells of sweet apples, oats, and sleep. The chair is hard beneath him, but Jaskier curls his feet up anyway to make himself as small as possible. They eat in silence. He knows Geralt can tell how much he _isn’t_ looking at him. When he finds himself scraping the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, he clears his throat.

“How...how’s the leg?”

At first, he doesn’t think Geralt will reply, but then the man looks straight at Jaskier again and says, “Fine.” 

“Sure? I thought I saw some blood this morning.”

“It’s nothing. Changed bandages whilst you were downstairs,” Geralt says and nods to the stool where the length of bandage is hanging to dry in front of the fireplace. Jaskier fumbles for something else to say, but Geralt beats him to it. “I’ll be needing another hour or so of meditation before we leave.”

“Right.” Jaskier swallows again. “Where are we going?”

“Wind’s been howling. Cold air coming down from the Dragon Mountains. It’ll be a later start today, but we can make it to La Valette or perhaps even Rinde by the end of tomorrow if the roads are good.”

“Right,” Jaskier croaks. _That’s that_. La Valette and Rinde border the Pontar. A day or two is all he has left. 

Geralt sets his bowl down and goes back to his meditation. The porridge sits heavy in Jaskier’s stomach. He looks around for something to do and spots Geralt’s discarded trousers and gambeson. There will be tears there to match the Witcher’s wounds. He picks up the needle from yesterday and settles in to work away the dark clouds gathering over his thoughts. 

***

“Easy, Roachie.” Roach dances impatiently as Geralt tightens the girth. “I don’t fancy falling on my arse.” She nips at his newly repaired gambeson. Her chestnut coat has begun to thicken for the winter, and Jaskier hopes to all the Gods that he’ll one day get to see it in all its fluffy glory. 

He stands off to the side like a horseshoe that’s come loose: inconvenient and liable to injuring the party. His lute is packed in its case; he doesn’t anticipate he’ll have much call for inspiration today. Besides, he wants to avoid annoying Geralt as much as possible. Roach prances on her fine legs over to him, bumping him unceremoniously with her hindquarters and sending him sprawling into Geralt. Strong arms steady him, and he feels at once like he’s going to combust. 

“Roach,” Geralt says sternly. “Leave Jaskier alone.” She snorts and tosses her head but stands still. Geralt looks at Jaskier, and Jaskier looks at the ground. 

“Sorry,” Geralt says. “She always gets a bit fresher when there’s a nip in the air.” 

“Quite alright,” says Jaskier, laughing thinly and forcing himself to pull away. “We both know she used to do far worse to me.”

“Hmm. I’d hoped we’d all be on better behaviour now.” It’s said so softly that he would have missed it entirely if not for how close they’re standing. 

_I am. Please let me show you I am_. 

“You’ll be wanting the details of last night’s contract,” Geralt says then, and Jaskier’s face burns.

“No,” he says quickly. “You don’t need to. Besides, I don’t think I could write anything right now.” The apple from earlier has soured on his tongue. He doesn’t want Geralt to think he’s using him, and it can do no harm to reveal how utterly useless his craftsmanship is these days now that they’re due to part in no time at all. He looks away and to the road ahead.

Despite the chill, it’s a surprisingly bright day; the midday sun glistens off of the water trough and the parts of Geralt’s armour he can see out of the corner of his eye, reminding him that the world cares not at all for his sorrows and will go on turning without the courtesy of at least making everyone else miserable as well with a rainstorm or two.

Geralt leaps onto Roach with an athleticism that makes Jaskier’s joints grunt in protest. The second he sits upright, Roach begins to trot off. 

_Fuck_. Jaskier hurries after. 

“Shhh, girl. I know you wanna run. Easy,” Geralt soothes, sitting heavier in his seat to encourage her to slow down. She does so for some steps before pulling at her bit again. Geralt winces slightly. “Woah, Roach. Slow. Gotta go slower for Jaskier.” 

“It’s – it’s alright. Don’t worry about me,” Jaskier says airily as he tries to mask how the quick pace is affecting his breath. The last thing he needs is to bring attention to his own sluggish mortality. 

Just then, a bird flies out from some trees by the road; Roach’s ears perk up and she takes off down the path with some truly impressive leaps and bucks. 

“Geralt!”

The Witcher sits the bucks masterfully, rising neatly in his stirrups to avoid getting thrown. “Dammit, Roachie, you’re not a yearling anymore.” For his troubles, he gets another big leap forward. “Fine. Have it your way,” he grumbles and clicks his tongue at her. Immediately, Roach explodes forward and thunders off into the distance. Jaskier stands stunned, watching as the pair disappear around the corner and out of sight. 

All of a sudden he’s alone.

_Dramatic_. He shakes his head at his own moroseness. Geralt wouldn’t just abandon him on the road. Roach might, though, so he hurries after them.

***

He finds them both in a field some ten minutes later. The path has cut through the dense trees and opened onto a dirt road with farmland on either side. Geralt has Roach trotting in neat circles and other figures on a large patch of uncultivated land. He stops by a large rock and watches as Geralt extends and shortens Roach’s gait; gradually, her head calms down, her hindquarters come up, and her neck rounds prettily. 

He’s glad harmony has been restored to two-thirds of their troup at least.

The pair come to a halt in front of Jaskier. To his surprise, he spies a brilliant grin on the Witcher’s face. Geralt loosens his reins and pets Roach’s neck. She stretches forward and noses Jaskier’s cheek in what could almost be an apology for earlier. 

“Been too long since we’ve done that. Sorry we took off. She’s been getting more restless lately. Cold weather brings it out more,” Geralt says, still smiling and praising his mount.

Jaskier can only stare at him adoringly and stroke his hand carefully down the mare’s cheek. “I’ve never seen her take off like that before.”

“No. She does it now and again. I usually gallop her a lot more, but…” Geralt’s gaze turns suddenly serious again. “We’ve never travelled so long together in one stretch before,” he finishes softly.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. 

“Hmm.” 

“I didn’t want – I never intended to bother you or her,” he says, staring at Roach’s soft muzzle.

“You haven’t,” says Geralt.

“I hope she hasn’t been want –”

“She’s hasn’t wan–”

“I understand if you wouldn’t–”

“Jaskier–”

Whatever chaos is about to swallow them both is interrupted by the sound of running feet.

“Angunn, wait!”

“Mister Geralt!”

All three of them turn towards the noise. Two boys barrel towards them as fast as their thin legs can carry them. They come skidding to a stop at Roach’s feet, but she doesn’t even bat an eyelid. 

“Mister Geralt,” the shorter one says, “Mister Geralt, help us!”

“Angunn, don’t bother the Witcher.” the other boy scolds.

They’re both of them terribly dirty and look like they could use a few good meals.

“Where are your parents?” Geralt asks.

“Home,” the taller boy says, pointing over Jaskier’s shoulder and towards a farm on the other side of the field. 

Geralt sighs. “What are your names?”

“I’m Mart,” says the taller boy, “and this is m’little brother.”

“I’m no’ little. I’m Angunn,” Angunn says.

“And what’s the problem, boys?”

“Nothing,” Mart says pointedly to Angunn, “we don’t want to bother you.”

“The horses! They took ‘em!” Angunn says. Mart turns Angunn around towards him firmly.

“Master Witcher is a monster slayer and don’t have time for horses,” he says.

“But Mister Geralt helps people. It’s in the songs,” Angunn says, and Jaskier feels his lip twitch upwards.

“Ma says you’re not to listen to tho–”

“Angunn is right, boys,” says Jaskier. He turns to Geralt who is dismounting. 

“Hmm.” Geralt crouches in front of the boys, rubbing a hand over his thigh. “Someone took your horses?”

Angunn nods. “Blackie and Troll and–”

“Angunn–” 

“Ma’s been crying!”

The brothers look at each other.

“Five horses were stolen last night,” Mart says. “Two are Ma’s, but we was all going to Gors Velen to sell the three others at market. But now they’re gone, an–”

“An Ma’s been crying,” says Angunn.

“I don’t suppose your Ma knows you’re here?” Geralt asks.

“No,” says Mart, picking at the frayed hem of his tunic, “And we haven’t any money.”

“Well of course you don’t,” Jaskier says. “How can you when you don’t have any horses to sell?”

Geralt gets up, rubbing his thigh again. “Show us where the horses were when they were taken. And,” he leans forward slightly, “if we’re all _quiet_ , your Ma won’t have to know we were ever there.”

***

Jaskier sits on a fallen log in the woods, watching between the tops of the trees how the pinks, oranges, and purples dance in the sky as the sun sets. It can’t be much past six, but the days have shortened and will shorten further before Midinváerne’s Eve. He usually passes the longest night of the year at Oxenfurt Academy; the liberal arts staff make merry with food, wine from Touissant, and deplorable bardic one-upmanship which products will never leave the four stone walls of the grand dining hall but will be brought up without fail every year, rehashed and revisited until any remaining truths hang by frayed threads they all cling to as evidence that they were once all young and promising – ready to travel the world and have their names sung until the days of the White Frost.

Only a select few of them have ever truly traded cushioned armchair poetry for bedrolls and epics. Jaskier is by far the youngest to do so, and for some savaeds every year he gives lectures to the newest and brightest artists the Northern Kingdom’s have to offer and entertains his fellow staff members at the head table. 

Every year, however, he finds his words softening away from tales of archgriffins and kikimoras and towards the most commonplace and well-traveled path of them all; Romance makes way for a lower-case counterpart that is far removed from chivalric nobility and only distantly related to the bawdiest tavern tune. _Fin’amour_ is in the past. He is at sea, and the distant shoreline is made not of gold but grey stubble, dirt, and alchemist’s powders. The rolling hills of muscle beyond are paved with scars, and when he breathes in he smells leather and chamomile. High in the sky are twin stars – two suns of equal strength – that flash with anger or twinkle with amusement as they gaze upon him. Jaskier wants it all – the sweat and the laughter and the blood and the campfire. He finds he even wants the heartbreak; if he can weather the storm he has caused and make it to the shore he’ll know better how to tend to the hills and the flowers and bask in the warmth of the suns. 

Darkness begins to stretch over them all, and the bushes in front of him rustle. A fox emerges, red colour starting to grey in the fading light and tail handsome and fluffy. A gust ruffles the hair on Jaskier’s head and the fox’s thick coat both, but Jaskier shivers and suspects he’s the only one who feels the biting chill of such a clear evening.

A cloak falls across his shoulders, and the fox takes off into the looming night. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says as Geralt appears noiselessly beside him. 

“You need one of your own,” he says.

“You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

Geralt sits down next to him. An owl hoots in the distance, and the forest smells of earth, pine, and moss. 

“We’ll wait here until it’s fully dark,” Geralt rumbles.

“Okay.”

The owl hoots again, and Jaskier is abruptly aware that this is the first time since breakfast that they’re properly alone and with nothing to do but exist in each other’s presence. The vast woodland fades, and his senses hone in on Geralt’s slow breathing, the warmth of the cloak, and the weight of the apology he’s yet to give. An apology Geralt doesn’t want to hear. 

_No_ . Jaskier shifts to ease the ache in his back. _An apology he doesn’t expect me to give_. The thought sits heavy in his stomach. Geralt knows he’ll apologise – probably even anticipated what he’d say. It’s not the first time after all. But, unlike the other times, Jaskier has stabbed at an insecurity he never even considered the Witcher might have. He hadn’t trusted Jaskier to address the right thing – not that he’d said something hurtful but that the hurt itself came from a perceived confirmation of how little Jaskier must truly care about him. 

The urge to puff up in indignation and incredulity of all the years they’ve travelled together and done things that clearly only two people with an affection for each other do is there and gone. Geralt has never had a friend beyond his fellow Witchers. What are nearly twenty years with Jaskier to the decades of closed doors?

Geralt coughs, and Jaskier looks up and realises that he can barely see him.

“Sun’s gone,” he says for lack of anything better to say.

“Mhm,” says Geralt. “There are some scholars and manipulators of chaos who believe that the sun sets several minutes before we actually see it disappear below the horizon.”

“Huh.”

“That’s what Yen says, at least.” 

Jaskier groans. “ _That_ witch.” 

“Yes, she is.”

Jaskier laughs ruefully. “And what do Witchers think?”

Geralt hums. “It’s probably true, at least the way she explained it. But all that really matters is that the sun disappears and reappears when it should. When it suddenly doesn’t, I’ll finally retire because fuck if I’m willing to deal with whatever else must have happened for that to occur.”

That startles a true laugh out of him, and they sit a few moments longer in the lingering joy.

“His name was Alcam,” Geralt says abruptly. 

“What?”

“The vampire. He’d killed seven villagers in total. Some –”

“Please don’t,” Jaskier chokes out. Geralt pauses, then

“I thought –”

“I don’t. You owe me _nothing_.”

For a while, there’s only the wind in the trees and what Jaskier supposes must be the fogging of their breaths in the air if he’d been able to see it.

“What of the camp?” he asks.

Geralt’s response comes quick. “Four bandits. They’ve tied the horses up. It’s too early for them to be asleep yet, though.”

“What’s the plan?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “They stole some horses. We’re gonna steal them back.” 

A large hand urges Jaskier to stand, and he starts to follow Geralt.

“ _Quietly_ ,” the Witcher says, and Jaskier has to roll his eyes because he knows Geralt can see him.

They walk stealthily through the woods – well, Geralt walks silently, and Jaskier tries not to trip on a root or ruffle a bush – and reach the edge of a clearing before long. They hide behind a large tree, and Jaskier sees the bandits sitting around a fire. In the shadows and away from the firelight are one, two, three, four, and five horses. One of them towers above the rest.

“Must be Troll,” Jaskier whispers.

“Hmm,” Geralt says. Jaskier can just about make out his face in the dim castaway light of the fireside.

“What are you waiting for? Steel for humans, let’s go.” 

Geralt’s eyes narrow on the scene. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers. 

“What?” 

“Only one of them has a sword.”

Jaskier frowns. “So? Easy fight. Gift, horse, _many horses_ , mouth.”

Geralt gives him a look. 

Jaskier groans as quietly as possible. “You can’t be serious. Don’t be noble. They stole from starving children.”

“I don’t kill unarmed men,” Geralt says.

“One of them is armed!” 

“Fine, I might kill _him_ then.” Geralt makes a sound low in his throat in thought. “We can do this without coming to blows if we free some of the horses first.”

“Mhm,” he grumbles, unimpressed.

“Of course – we’ll need to actually free them without Genius One through Four realising.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and prays for patience. “Well what do you suggest then?” he hisses.

Geralt pauses.

“Remember Novigrad?” he asks.

“Do be specific, Geralt.”

“Crimson Avenger.”

“Cock and balls you horse’s arse of course I bollocking remember.” The next time Jaskier wants a large sum of money he’ll rob Vivaldi’s Bank instead. Much safer.

“Hmm.”

“What? No. Absolutely not.”

“Hmm.”

“No!”

“Hmm.”

“Fine. But I swear to the Gods next time it’s your turn to humiliate yourself,” Jaskier grumbles, “Geralt of Rivia: _Prince of Thieves._ ”

“ _You wrote the script_ ,” Geralt pokes him in the side.

“I don’t even have my mask.”

Geralt holds up a handkerchief that Jaskier just _knows_ is blood red. “Luckily, I kept mine.”

“ _Fuck_. You do it then.”

Jaskier feels more than sees Geralt raising his eyebrow. “How do you propose to steal five horses if you can’t Axii them?”

“And what do _you_ propose to do if Genius One stabs _me_ with that sword?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt says. “I’ll take care of that before I get the horses. Wait for my signal.” 

“What signal? Geralt? What sign – oh for –” he breaks off because Geralt _fucking disappears_ into the thicket.

“Don’t worry about it, the man says.” Jaskier sighs soundlessly and pretends really hard that he wouldn’t marry the man if given half the chance. He turns back to watch the bandits as they warm their hands by the fire. He has to be ready for Geralt, but it’s a tall order when he doesn’t even know what to _fucking look out for_.

A wolf howls from somewhere behind him and to the right, sending chills up his spine. 

“What was that?” Genius Two says.

“A cat. _Honestly_. Never heard a wolf before?” Genius Three says.

The howl sounds again.

“Shite. Go.” Genius Three says.

“Why me?” Genius Two says.

“Because we can’t have wolves nipping at the horses now can we?” Genius Four says.

“But why can’t you go?” Genius Two says.

A bush just two meters away from Jaskier rustles menacingly. The wind changes, and Jaskier catches a hint of... _chamomile_? He rolls his eyes and ties the handkerchief around the lower half of his face. 

“Fuck all of you. I’ll go,” Genius One says.

“Boss, you can’t go. You’re the boss,” Genius Two says.

“It’s my sword ‘aint it? Wait here.” Genius One says, and he stalks, sword at the ready, towards Jaskier. 

Jaskier backs away quickly, trying not to be seen.

“Well come out then you mangy beast,” the bandit says, sword raised as he enters the thicket. He’s squinting, clearly not adjusted to the dark from staring into the flames. Jaskier’s back hits a tree, and he freezes. The bandit turns towards him, eyes looking somewhere to Jaskier’s left.

A growl sounds.

“I see you, beast,” the bandit says, not seeing Geralt sneaking up on him from behind. 

“Woof,” Geralt says and knocks the bandit out with the hilt of his sword. The man crumples to the ground with a dull thud.

“Fuck, what was that?” Genius Two says from the camp.

Geralt picks up the bandit leader’s sword and hands it to Jaskier. “Cue,” the bastard man says and sneaks off again.

Jaskier takes a second to ask himself if he’s really doing this before he swaggers out of the treeline, the leader’s sword swinging clearly in his hand as he toys with it. 

“Knaves,” he says grandly, spreading his arms wide. “Have my senses hoodwinked me so or doth mine seeing-orbs look upon three men,” he squints, “– pardon me – two men and one woman of ill repute?” 

The bandits have all gotten to their feet but stay where they are for now, watching Jaskier with suspicion. Jaskier makes sure to circle them slightly, bringing them all to face away from the horses where he can just about glimpse a hint of silver catching the firelight. 

“And who the fuck are you?” asks Genius Three.

“You ‘ain’t the boss.” Genius Two says. 

“I’m the mighty Crimson Avenger, my ale-breathed brethren, and, no, I am not your boss.” Jaskier cuts the sword through the air with a satisfying slash. “Charming, I’m sure, but alas he had to see a man about a wolf.” 

A horse whinnies in the background, and Jaskier panics and flips his sword into the air, catching it neatly in a ta-dah motion.

“What the ploughing hell is wrong with you?” Genius Three asks.

Jaskier sighs dramatically. “What ails all men? Love, loss, the Conjunction of the Spheres, and periodic irritations of the bowelled kind.”

“Where’s the boss?” Genius Two says.

“Don’t know, but this muck-spewing arse-nugget has the answers,” Genius Three says, putting her fists up.

From this distance, Jaskier can’t see the horses anymore, but he hopes Geralt is finished soon because today might be the second time he nearly dies without it being his fault. 

“You, madam, must have been fathered by a wort-laden barrel and mothered by a saddle-goose!” he says, pointing his sword at her steadily. 

“You, shit-for-brains, have outstayed your welcome. Where’s the boss?” she says.

“Verily he’ll recover feeling no worse than following a visit to the average alehouse.” 

Genius Three stalks towards him slowly, sizing him up in a way that suggests that she is severely unimpressed with him. “Who is the Crimson Avenger anyway?”

“A protector of the weak, including children and purloined horses,” Jaskier says. 

A sharp whistle cuts through the campsite. 

“What was that?” Genius Four says.

The ground trembles, and Jaskier grins. “The noblest of all the ladies.” 

Roach gallops into the clearing and past them all, and they watch as she disappears into the darkness of the trees.

Genius Three lets out a laugh. “Seems like the mare didn’t care much for you. Likely won’t miss you when we’re done with you for what you did to the boss.” 

“She probably won’t, no, but I do wonder if you’ll miss the horses you stole,” Jaskier says.

“What the fuck do you –”

“ _Fuck_.”

From out of the shadows comes Roach again, this time with Geralt on her back and the stolen horses in tow. The Witcher winds the bandits with a blast of Aard as he canters towards them, holding his arm out for Jaskier. 

Jaskier gives a short bow. “A pleasure, knaves and ruffians,” he says before he’s intercepted and lifted onto Roach’s back like a sack of flour. Turning around in his seat, he yells “Your performance was sponsored by the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia. Stealing is bad!” before he is whisked off into the woodland by a Witcher and half a dozen horses, grinning like a fool. 

***

Mart and Angunn’s Ma – whose name is actually Grana – is understandably surprised by the reappearance of the horses in the yard. They had intended to be quiet as promised, but the sound of twentyish hooves on the ground where there should be none is enough to make anyone think the Nilfgaardian army at their doorstep. 

“And I can’t even pay ye. My horses. My _Blackie_. How am I ever to thank ye, Witcher?” Grana says, tears in her eyes.

“Don’t lose them on the way to Gors Velen tomorrow,” Geralt says with half a smile. Turns out even prejudice cannot survive the safe return of a beloved steed, and Grana hasn’t been able to let Geralt’s hand go since she first grasped it in shock. Geralt is looking increasingly uncomfortable with the attention, and so Jaskier steps in.

“It was our pleasure, madam. Your boys do you credit, and the White Wolf of Rivia stops at nothing to help those in need,” he says, patting Grana’s hand. She immediately latches onto him, and Geralt slips away to let Jaskier do what he does best. 

***

The stable is crowded with animals and what looks to be enough straw to fill every pallet in town thrice over. It smells of beast and man alike, but it is warm, the wind merely glancing off the solid wooden walls on its way north. Grana had asked a final favour of them: to guard the stables the rest of the night before tomorrow’s market. Jaskier passes several stalls, seeing the aptly-named Blackie and giant Troll well bedded into their boxes safe and sound. Geralt will be here. Jaskier supposes there is a comfort to being surrounded by creatures of four legs with little interest in the workings of mankind. He doesn’t know how long Geralt’s pardon – unspoken and unprompted as it is – will last, but by the end of the night, he’s determined to wrestle his words into submission and say the right thing. 

He hears him before he sees him. A familiar wicker sounds, followed by a dear voice that seems more to travel through vibrations in the ground beneath Jaskier’s feet than through the air. 

“I know, girl. I’ve held you back lately, haven’t I?”

A snort.

“Forgive me. He doesn’t have four legs like you. He tires.”

Another snort.

“Don’t give me that. I know you care.”

A hoof stomps down hard.

“I know a liar when I hear one. Took me too long. Don’t do what I did. Not that you would.”

Straw rustles. Geralt must be rubbing her coat dry from the sweat. 

“You’re my best girl.” 

Jaskier rounds the corner in time to see Geralt pressing a kiss to Roach’s muzzle. Something flutters in the living-breathing-ballad-making part of his body, and he itches to either sigh with the spirit of a thousand springtime maidens or compose his magnum opus.

“Far be it from me to come between a man and his horse.” He says, delighted to see a slight reddening of the Witcher’s cheeks. Roach’s stall is rich with straw; Geralt has clearly added some from the stable’s plentiful stock since the magnificent Lady’s box is looking far more comfortable than the others. He watches Geralt rub at Roach’s shoulder, and she curves her neck to nip at his back, moving her head back and forth slightly. 

They’re grooming each other.

Masterfully suppressing another sigh of unreasonable adoration, Jaskier spies some hay and grabs a good armful, spluttering slightly as some of it gets in his mouth. He settles it tidily in her box.

“Here you are my Lady. Well deserved it is. A fair price for a whisper of your affections.”

He holds his hand out to her, but she ignores him and the hay entirely in favour of continuing to groom Geralt’s thigh. He can’t say he blames her. He goes off to find a scoop of oats for her trough. He returns, greeted by the sight of Geralt’s lovely bottom as he picks Roach’s hooves. The oats get Roach’s attention, though, and she strains her head forward in search of them, taking care not to overbalance her Witcher.

“Do you have time for me, Madam? I knew it. You do love me.” The second Geralt lets her hoof go, she shoves her head into the feed trough, and they are surrounded by the comforting sound of satisfied chewing. “Or at least you love what I can do for you.” As if to prove him wrong, she turns her head briefly and bumps his shoulder with her nose, spreading saliva and half-chewed oats onto his doublet. He can’t even find it in himself to object. It must be true love. 

“Here.” All at once there’s a Witcher in front of him, and he can feel the reverberation of Geralt’s voice in his own chest. Breathing is a foreign concept and moving an impossibility as Geralt uses his shirtsleeve to wipe the oats from his chest. The adrenaline and distraction of the heist are gone now, and all that exists between them is the present – real and unavoidable. He can’t ask what the plan is. There is none. There’s only Geralt and what Geralt does and whatever the _fuck_ Jaskier can find it in himself to say. He burns, swallowing down the want that howls in his throat. 

“T-thanks.”

“Hmm.” 

He smiles weakly at that familiar sound, but weakly he does smile for how could he not? Unspoken affection is no less felt after all.

The White Wolf wears the Path on his skin, hair, and garb, but Roach’s coat is pristine. It is a clear sign of the Witcher’s affection, and he wonders idly if it is wrong to be jealous of a horse. Being quiet as she is not in his nature, and he cannot pretend he is even half as useful as her. She literally carries Geralt on her back, and who is Jaskier but someone who trudges along on the ground? She bumps and bullies Geralt around but is never unsure of her welcome. 

She’s also a horse and cannot talk and hurt those she loves.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier jumps. Geralt’s head is tilted in concern. 

“Nothing.” He runs a hand through his hair and forces a smile. “It’s nothing.”

Geralt’s shoulders hunch slightly when he turns to throw a woollen rug over Roach, and Jaskier wants to kick himself. 

“Geralt?”

The man turns to him right away. Jaskier takes out the apple he had hidden in his pocket and hands it to him. Geralt considers it for a split second and then – in a display of oblivious everyday showmanship – splits it neatly down the middle with his bare hands. He hands half of it back to Jaskier. 

The smile comes easily this time, and the warmth he feels cannot be blamed on the soft puffs of breath from Roach’s nose alone as she takes the piece of apple from his hands. She dribbles all over him, some of it dropping to the straw below as she chews messily. He really shouldn’t compare himself to a horse.

Geralt feeds Roach his half of the apple, and she leans into his hand as he scratches at her forelock.

He looks tired.

“Come on then, Geralt. Let’s get you some food.”

Geralt says nothing as he gives Roach a final pat and picks up the saddlebags from the ground, but when he follows Jaskier he takes Jaskier’s bag from his shoulder too. He marvels at how many kindnesses this man will extend when the recipient is so undeserving. The air tastes salty. Is it the coast calling from miles and miles away, or is it just the sweat from Geralt’s back after a long day? 

Either way, what aching bliss.

***

Grana’s house is too small for herself, two boys, and two grown men. The barn that’s attached to the stable is at their disposal, however, and they’ve spent many nights in far worse places. It smells like clean air, and they lay out their bedrolls on more soft straw. A few minutes later, Grana arrives with some stew and fresh bread before leaving again with a final thank you to them both. She even points them towards a wooden tub and the well before she goes.

“May the Gods bless that woman,” Jaskier says before tucking into his food. The stew is warmth and goodness, and he delights in the taste of potatoes, beef, carrots, and cream. 

They eat in silence, each just relishing the reality of a solid roof and free food. Jaskier finishes in record time. Geralt seems to have perked up some more at the well-made dish, and Jaskier takes a moment to just take in the sight of the man enjoying himself. He’s lovely in the light of the oil lamp, features softened and expression open. 

He’s unguarded and content, and Jaskier wants him to be like that always.

“Geralt,” he says quietly. The Witcher looks at him, tilting his head slightly. “Geralt, it’s come to my attention that what I have thought blindingly obvious to the Gods and all their worldly creatures is perhaps not to you.”

“Hmm?”

Jaskier smiles, lips trembling slightly at the corners. “Forgive me. What I mean is…” he swallows. “I have done you the disservice of talking too much in a circle and not in a line. In a line, Geralt, you are my best friend and greatest joy, and...and I should not have said I’d leave you.”

Geralt stares at him. “It was a joke, Jaskier, and I –”

“But it wasn’t. Not when it hurt you. And I am sorry – truly sorry.” Their eyes lock, and Jaskier touches his hand to Geralt’s. “And I won’t leave you. Not ever.” He hopes Geralt understands that he means it – _wills_ Geralt to understand how much he means it. 

Though he doesn’t seem to mind the touch of Jaskier’s hand against his, Geralt looks lost, and it squeezes at Jaskier’s heart. After a while he makes a sound low in his chest, adrift and acknowledging all at once.

For a moment there’s only the sound of horses chewing and snorting haphazardly. Geralt continues to stare at Jaskier, and Jaskier meets his gaze steadily. 

Then, Geralt says “The vampire was called Alcam. He’d killed seven villagers in total. Some of them hadn’t even been reported missing because there was no one to miss them.” 

Warmth floods Jaskier, and he squeezes Geralt’s hand once before diving for his pack. Geralt waits for him to find his notebook and quill.

“In the end, he was just a man,” Geralt continues. “A woman he’d set his eyes on had refused him and so he killed her and anyone else who did the same. Monstrous indeed, but I’ve seen it enough to know he wasn’t anything special. Just a man who believed himself entitled to things he was not and who felt his right was just enough to harm another. I’ve said before there’s no real difference between true monsters and monstrous humans – they’re all monsters or capable of cruelty – but, in truth, humans only call another human a monster to distance themselves from the reality of what they’re all capable of if _they_ were to decide their needs and wants are more important than any others no matter the cost.”

Jaskier puts his quill down and looks at the Witcher for a moment. “And we call some beings monsters purely because they’re different,” he says, touching the back of his hand to Geralt’s once more because Geralt had allowed it and Jaskier wants to, “even though their hearts are twice the size of any man’s and thrice as good.”

They sit together quietly, and the silence feels honest and light. Jaskier wants to live in this moment forever. It’s been a long day, however, and even Geralt seems to be flagging.

“Come on,” Jaskier says. “Let’s wash and then to bed.”

Geralt nods, and they get up. Whilst setting up, however, Jaskier catches Geralt wincing as he pours the water he’s pulled from the well into the tub.

“Okay, I’ve seen you do that several times today. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Geralt says.

“You’re not. I thought you meditated?” 

“I did.”

Jaskier frowns. “But you’re in pain.”

“It didn’t fully heal by morning”

“Then why didn’t you stop us so you could meditate some more?” Jaskier asks. Geralt doesn’t answer, but he can see the Witcher’s hands tighten around the bucket handle.

“Geralt?”

“I deserve it.”

Jaskier gapes. “I beg your pardon?” 

Geralt shrugs. “For making you cry. I had promised to never do that again. But I did.” 

“No. _Fucking_ no,” Jaskier says, fuming. “We’re going to finish filling up this tub, and you will heat it, and you will get in it, and I will wash your hair, and _you will meditate that away_.” 

“Jaskier –” 

“No! First of all I absolutely deserved every bad feeling. And you did not make me cry. _I_ made me cry by being such a horse’s arse to you. And second of all, never again, Geralt of Rivia, will you punish yourself with pain,” he says. “Never.” 

“Hmm.”

“Do you promise?” Jaskier says in an echo of the night before. Geralt’s lip twitches minutely upwards, and he nods.

“Good. Now get in the tub, you impossible man.”

Much later and under the cover of darkness and those precious secret-keeping hours when late night glides into early morning, Jaskier is woken by the brief touch of a warm hand to his cheek, delicate and fleeting like the kiss of a butterfly.

“Jaskier?”

“Mm?” he sounds, eyes closed and comforted by the familiar voice.

“Thank you.”

***

They cross the Pontar by the old fort of La Valette early in the morning two days after waving Grana and her boys off to Gors Velen. A fine rime has stiffened the grass by the riverbank into miniature tufts and peaks of white pelt; the frost crystals catch in the light of the rising sun in a dance more marvellous than anything even a fisstech-addled mind could conjure. 

Roach’s hooves clop rhythmically on the wooden planks of the bridge. She shakes her head and snorts clouds of vapour into the air. She is pleased. Her ears are perked and her gait engaged. Geralt took her for a gallop before they set off, and now they’re all walking three abreast in a direction that, in combination with the cold and her many years as Geralt’s horse, Roach knows means she’ll be heading towards home. 

Jaskier nods his head in greeting at a passing tradesman, stepping out of the way for his cart and closer to Roach. He strokes her neck sadly. Her lovely chestnut hairs warm his hand, and he keeps it there for a while. Geralt’s cloak sits warmly over his shoulders, and the Witcher himself walks on Roach’s other side. Neither of them have said much since they set off. The bridge can’t last forever, and Jaskier can see the signpost pointing towards Oxenfurt a couple of yards away. Once there, he’ll say goodbye like he does every year, initiating their parting so he doesn’t have to hear Geralt do it. He thinks of Grana’s barn and how Geralt hadn’t moved his hands away. He thinks of the truths they had shared and the new understanding that rests between them. Pulling the cloak tighter around himself, he thinks that...that Geralt won’t mind it if he – 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, eyes soft. “Can I ask you something?” They’ve reached the end of the bridge, but Geralt’s voice is low and confessional, and Jaskier suddenly knows he needs Geralt to keep talking. 

“Yes,” he breathes. 

“Don’t –”

“Geralt,” says a voice from out of the sky. They both look up to see a magnificent black raven soar towards them. 

“ _Fucking bollocks_ ,” Jaskier says as Geralt holds his arm out for the bird to land on.

“It’s just Yen.”

“Talking fucking bird, of course it’s Yennefer of bloody Vengerberg.”

“Julian,” the raven says in Yennefer’s voice. Up close, Jaskier can see its eyes glowing an unnatural and vibrant lilac. “Still alive?”

“Witch,” Jaskier says, smiling thinly. “Still here?” 

The raven tilts its head to the side. “Of course I’m not there,” it says, “and neither is the bird.” Said bird disappears in a puff of smoke, reappearing on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“ _Yen,_ ” Geralt says. 

“Are you alone?”

Geralt’s pupils contract as he uses his Witcher senses. “Yes. Just me and Jaskier.”

“Good good. No one of importance then.”

“I’m sorry did someone say something?” Jaskier says pleasantly.

“Be nice,” Geralt sighs, but Jaskier isn’t sure who he’s said it to. “Is Ciri okay?”

The bird nudges Geralt’s cheek gently with its beak. “Yes, yes, the women in your life are getting on with things just fine without you, Wolf.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean –”

“Do be serious, Geralt. We both know you did. It’s alright. Please, do keep trying to protect me from the big bad world.” The raven laughs lightly. Jaskier sees the lines around Geralt’s eyes gentle, and there’s an ugly little creature scratching at the door to his heart. 

“Always,” Geralt says.

“Anyway, why aren’t you at Kaer Morhen? Won’t the pass have frozen over?” 

Jaskier heart stutters, and he looks at Geralt.

Geralt glances at Jaskier, face unreadable again. “Had something to sort out.”

“When will you be there? Ciri misses you.”

And just like that, Jaskier gets to watch Geralt’s face melt. It’s extremely endearing. 

“The pass should be fine,” Geralt says. “We’ll be there in two weeks. Maybe less if the weather holds.”

Jaskier can’t breathe.

“Excellent. I’ll portal in with Ciri then,” the raven says. “There’s a portal for you too if you want it?”

_We_?

“Keep your damn portal,” Geralt growls. “We’ll travel by foot and keep our insides where they should be.”

_We._

“Temper, Geralt, or I’ll just portal you now just to see if your guts might spill what you had for breakfast,” the raven says. It then caws once before disappearing in another puff of smoke. 

_He could mean Roach, but..._ “Geralt?” Jaskier croaks out.

The Witcher takes a deep breath almost as if to steel himself. “I know wintertime is reserved for your friends and colleagues at the Academy.” He looks at Jaskier. “But would you consider leaving behind the comforts of Oxenfurt and coming with me to winter at the keep? I can’t promise high society and banquets, but there’ll be enough food, a safe place to sleep, and Ciri.”

_And you_.

“Of course I’ll come, Geralt,” he says, looking at him from over Roach’s neck. “I’ve never not wanted to come.”

“Oh,” Geralt says.

“Mhm.”

Geralt busies himself with straightening Roach’s forelock. “I didn’t realise. You’ve always –”

“I was scared.” He doesn’t know where this bravery is coming from. But Geralt’s hands are careful in Roach’s mane, and his head is tilted ever so slightly towards Jaskier. “I didn’t want you to tell me no.”

“Oh,” Geralt says.

“Mhm.”

A murmuration flies overhead, and the rime melts around them as the sun rises higher in the sky. They stand in shared quiet, giving pets to Roach until she has enough and just starts walking towards the east where she knows the trail will take them into the Blue Mountains.

*** 

After a week and a half of various drowner nests, grave hags, and a nasty set of noonwraiths, the Kaedweni trail takes them to the capital of Ard Carraigh. This far north, the villages have dwindled to almost nothing, and the fortress dominates the landscape for vast stretches. The city gates are framed by the Black Unicorn on Gold; the coat of arms shows up more as a faded yellow, but the unicorn forcené is bold and serves as a timeless marker of when Viduka, progenitor of the Dynasty of the Unicorn, was led by said unicorn to an oddly shaped rock whereupon he founded his capital.

Jaskier has never been this deep into Kaedwen before, and he is in awe of the dramatic scenery. It is the stuff of fairytales and ancient songs. Apart from the fortress itself, high mountains rise all around them; peaks upon peaks layering the land like teeth – an iron border to protect the Northern Realms that houses elves and ice trolls alike. From Ard Carraigh, the main road goes further on to Aedd Gynvael, and they will be relying instead on following the river Gwenllech to Kaer Morhen. Snow has started to fall in regular intervals, blanketing the capital’s rooftops in a fine powder. Geralt’s cloak now has a permanent perch on Jaskier’s shoulders. Luckily for them, it is still warm enough that it melts on the ground, but it means they will have to make it through the pass soon before it snows closed. 

“This is amazing!” Jaskier says as they come into the city proper. They’re greeted by a host of scintillating smells and vibrant colours. The castle walls are alive with activity; in the period leading up to Midinváerne’s Eve, the streets are crowded with market stalls, decorations, and merrymakers. “Look at the banners! The wreaths!” He twirls around trying to take it all in. It’s been a while since they’ve been in a big city, and he plans to drink in as much as he can before they leave.

“Try not to get lost, Bard.” Geralt guides him to walk in front of him, letting Roach cut her way through the throng. 

“And can you smell that? That’ll be a pie that’s definitely _not_ fillingless.” 

A hand touches his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have said that. I often find your singing enjoyable,” Geralt says quietly. He’s been doing that a lot lately. So has Jaskier. The last few weeks seem to have shed them both of an invisible burden, and words of forgiveness and affirmation flow freer than ever before, safer in the knowledge that they will be met by grace and good faith.

“I know, Geralt.” He turns around, walking backwards. “I admit sometimes it _is_ rather fillingless. Not everyone appreciates a tale of high art sung in the elder tongue; some would much rather hear how many synonyms I know for the word ‘cock’ and how often I can make them rhyme. But thank you all the same.” 

And there, out of the corner of his eye and tucked away, small and unassuming, he spots a welcome sign. “A luthier! Geralt, I simply must go. I’ve been needing some new strings, and my case is getting worn.” He frowns. “Have we the money? I’m sorry, I didn’t even think.”

Geralt smiles wryly. “There’s a reason I’ve been taking such middling contracts. Though boring, the contracts are mostly easy money. The trolls especially. People pay up to get rid of them, but all they really require is a little persuasion. Ard Carraigh’s our last city before we’re locked away for the season, and we’ll need to resupply here.” He chucks Jaskier their money pouch. “I’ve taken what I need for now. Don’t spend it all.” He nods towards the luthier’s shop. “Meet you here in an hour?” 

Jaskier glows. “Have I ever told you how splendid you are? You magnificent model of masculinity, you most charming champion of all creation, my –”

“Go, Bard,” Geralt says before he nudges Jaskier towards paradise. 

The door is an old and worn oak, but the shop itself is brightly lit from the large windows and welcoming. Jaskier closes his eyes and takes in the smell of wood, oils, and rosin. They settle in his lungs like friends, and when he opens his eyes he’s met with a sight more heavenly than even the courts of Cintra could boast. The walls are littered with instruments in various stages of completion. A large block of wood sits on the counter, and he can see the shape of a lute forming from out of the carvings. He spots a wonderful specimen hanging by the neck near the counter, and he picks it up, admiring the craftsmanship of the swirled pegs and fine woodwork of the soundboard. Out of the window, he catches a glimpse of silver hair as the Witcher peruses the market stalls. 

All alone in the shop, he gazes at Geralt and lets his fingers play over the strings and his mind wander to places he usually tries to keep tucked away. From out of the drought, a tune takes shape: a melody that travels in harmony, a tempo that speaks of worship without hurry, and a simple but steady tonic to return to every stanza. Watching as his Witcher – for that is what he is – haggles for what looks to be a book, he strums the lute and thinks only of courage, comfort, and constance.

“Melitele take me, but whoever they are I hope you succeed.”

Jaskier jumps and nearly drops the lute. A tiny woman stands behind the counter, her face wrinkles with age and eyes sharp as a razor’s edge. 

“Madam, a thousand apologies for my unpardonable rudeness.” He sets the lute carefully back in place. “It has come to no harm, I assure you, and –”

“Goodness, lad, do be quiet. Such talk doesn’t become the White Wolf’s bard,” the woman says, eyes twinkling at him as he flushes at the moniker.

“You know who I am?”

“Do I, the only luthier in Kaedwen, know who Geralt of Rivia – Witcher of Kaer Morhen in the kingdom of Kaedwen – has running around the continent with him to sing his songs? You could say that.” She twinkles some more at him. “Fine songs they are too, Jaskier the Bard.”

“Thank you, madam,” Jaskier says, delighted.

“Now, Etli’s my name. How can I help you?”

They pass a pleasant hour lost in talk of string pairings, the benefits of various tensions, and the various properties of sheep versus pig’s guts. Etli even talks him through the lutherie process, and Jaskier gets to help her carve away a section of her newest work. By the time he leaves with new strings and a leather case treated with water-repelling oils, he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Give Geralt my regards, won’t you?” Etli shoults after him, and he nearly trips over his own feet on his way out the door.

He passes several stalls on his way back, lingering on one selling jewelry and other trinkets. It’s highly doubtful there’s anything of real value there, but the collection is charming. He passes over several rings and bracelets, but there at the top left corner of the stall hangs a locket. It’s silvery in colour and is – rather perfectly – engraved with the image of a horse at gallop. He buys it without a second thought and wonders idly if the day can get any better. 

Geralt is standing about where they parted, seeming to have a nonverbal conversation with Roach. 

“Sorry I’m late. The luthier was a triumph. A blessing to the musical world, truly,” he says and hands the strings to Geralt to pack in Roach’s saddlebags. There’s a large canvas sack hanging over the saddle now too, presumably filled with whatever they need to bring with them to Kaer Morhen. 

“I see you’ve met Etli then,” Geralt says.

“Yes,” Jaskier muses. “She said to say hello. Also, why do you know a luthier?” 

“Helped her with a rat infestation once. They were chewing through the best Temerian cedar she had.”

“ _Geralt,_ why do you know the value of Temerian cedar?”

“What person does _not_ know the difference between Temerian cedar and Redanian pine and how they both complement the body and soundboard respectively?” 

Jaskier gapes. “ _No_ . I do _not_ accept this. Geralt of Rivia, you will tell me –”

“Relax, Jaskier. I listen when you talk is all,” Geralt says, leaving the statement floating behind him as he continues onwards as if it hasn’t just let loose a flock of larks in Jaskier’s stomach to flutter around madly.

They sell Jaskier’s old lute case and some other trinkets they’ve picked up on their travels. Geralt gets another two books. Jaskier buys a swallow brooch for Ciri. Roach, as it turns out, is in need of new shoes, and Jaskier watches in fascination as Geralt instructs the farrier about some special horseshoes he produces from his saddlebags. They’re fitted with iron barbs that the Witcher explains to him are for traction against the ice and snow. Roach must be in a good mood because she only pulls her foot out of the farrier’s grasp twice.

Eventually, they reach _The Celandine_. The inn is in decent repair, and Jaskier can smell the kitchen from outside. Geralt’s expression has begun to look a little pinched from the swarming crowd, so they rush inside, leaving Roach by the water trough. Upon talking with the innkeeper, however, are told the rooms are fully booked. 

“What now?” Jaskier asks as they exit. “It’s too late to make for the trail now, surely?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, looking around with narrowed eyes. “Where’s Roach?”

Sure enough, Roach is missing from outside the tavern door, and Jaskier has a brief second of panic before he realises that Roach is too much of a Wither’s horse to let anyone make off with her. Instead, he turns to Geralt and sees as his pupils narrow in a tell-tale sign of using his Witcher senses. Surprisingly, Geralt almost immediately grins and strides off into _The Celandine_ ’s stables. 

“Come.”

Inside, they find Roach nosing and nickering at another horse. It has a magnificent pure black coat and seems just as interested in Roach. Both horses turn at the sound of their approach, and Jaskier watches as the black horse even reaches out of its box to puff soft breaths at the Witcher. Geralt being Geralt only grins at the horse even as it presses its muzzle all over his face. 

“Good to see you too, Scorpion,” he rumbles before he’s nudged out of the way by Roach. 

“Scorpion?” Jaskier says.

Geralt gives the stallion a final pat on the neck and nods. “Purebred Kaedweni stallion and trusted steed of Eskel.” 

“Ohhh,” Jaskier says. Eskel, Geralt’s fellow Wolf Witcher and as good as family. “Eskel’s here, then?” 

“Mmm,” Geralt says as he opens Scorpion’s stall. Roach slips in, and the two horses immediately start to groom each other. “Sometimes we bump into each other on the way home. Nice surprise.” He carefully untacks Roach, and together they brush her off quickly. 

When they speak to the innkeeper again, they’re told that yes indeed there is a Witcher in the room furthest down the hall, and they make their way deeper into the inn with bags and tack under their arms. 

As they near the end of the corridor, the door to the last room opens, and a tall Witcher with a scarred face steps out. Though his scar is somewhat menacing, his face is pleasant and splits into a grin when he sees Geralt, making him look truly handsome.

“Wolf. It’s been too long,” Eskel says as he waves them both in.

Geralt sets their things down carefully, but the second the door closes he’s on Eskel like a limpet. The two of them embrace for a long time, almost breathing each other in. 

Jaskier busies himself with unpacking to give them some privacy. He imagines it must be a relief to see each other again every year in their line of work. Jaskier looks up when he hears two bodies hit the ground hard. He watches astounded as the two grown men wrestle like animals on the floor, and he’s pretty sure he sees one of them _bite_ the other. In the end, it seems Eskel has won, and he sits triumphantly on top of Geralt’s back. 

“I see you finally brought your Bard,” he says. “I’m Eskel, but I suppose this hunk of muscle’s already told you that.”

Jaskier nods and takes Eskel’s hand in a firm shake. “He has. Jaskier. Pleasure to meet you.”

“I let Roach into Scorpion’s stall,” Geralt says from the floor. 

Eskel nods. “Good. Scorpion’s missed her. Have you reshoed her?” 

“Mmm. Ynfror did it.”

“Yeah I had Ynfror too. What did you think of his filing?” Eskel asks, and Jaskier realises for the first time that this horse affliction Geralt has might not be strictly a Geralt thing so much as a Witcher thing. 

***

The tavern is teeming with people trying to seek warmth from the snow outside.

Despite his earlier stroke of inspiration, Jaskier doesn’t feel comfortable enough to try anything new yet, and so he makes his way through a couple of well-known ballads and a fair few drinking songs. He finishes his set with a rowdy sea shanty he picked up whilst he and Geralt were visiting the Skellige Isles and leaves with his pockets noticeably heavier than before. The adrenaline of performance still dancing in his veins, he bounds about looking for Geralt and Eskel and finds them in a corner booth with empty plates in front of them. Amazingly, they’re still talking about horses, and he just catches Eskel saying “sheath cleaning” before he decides to u-turn towards the counter so that _that_ particular topic might run its natural course before he gets back. 

He orders some fish from the innkeeper. When he returns to the table he finds Geralt being what he can only describe as _snuggled up_ to Eskel. Like this, he can see that Eskel actually is quite a bit taller and broader than Geralt, and he’s momentarily stunned by anyone being bigger than his mountain of a Witcher. Geralt is leaning against Eskel, and Eskel has his arm around Geralt’s shoulders with not an inch between them. It should be endearing, but Jaskier feels his stomach twist itself into knots. He’d never begrudge his Witcher any comfort, but he longs for a day where he might be the one Geralt might want to turn to with his worries. 

Eskel watches as Jaskier sits down, and he abruptly chuckles and turns to Geralt, “I think you’ll be fine, Wolf.” 

It’s clearly the end of a conversation Jaskier’s not been included in, and his unease only increases as he watches Geralt’s face pinken at Eskel’s words. 

“Okay?” Geralt asks Jaskier. 

He goes for a grin and throws the coin purse on the table.

“You tell me.”

Geralt lifts it and whistles. “Well done, Jaskier,” he says. His eyes are soft and considering, however, and Jaskier knows he’s not referring to the money itself. 

“Yes, well...amazing how much lighter one can feel when the future holds a gathering and not a parting,” Jaskier says, and busies himself with the fish to hide his blush. He’s still staring at his plate when the tension is broken by a loud belch. 

“Sorry,” Eskel says, waving a hand in front of himself entirely unrepentantly. He gets a palm to his face for his troubles as Geralt sits up straight and pushes Eskel away from himself.

“Leave that where it came from when we get to the keep. I don’t want that around Ci-Fiona,” Geralt says.

“Why? Don’t tell me you care about ladylike behavior now, Wolf.”

Geralt elbows Eskel. “No, but she might think you’re not really a Witcher but a beast come to eat her.”

“She’s what...eleven did you say? More than old enough to be set on a little endrega or two.”

“She’ll be on footwork and a wooden sword for at least a month before I’ll let any of you near her with a real beast,” Geralt huffs.

“A _month_?” Jaskier says. The Witchers turn to him in unison.

“What? Too long?” Eskel asks. 

Geralt frowns. “Surely not. We both had a month didn’t we?” he muses. “Then again, I suppose she might never have held a sword before.”

“I’ll deny it if ever you tell her I said so, but maybe you should run your schedule by Yennefer before you set any beasts on Fiona,” Jaskier says. 

He finishes his food, and they all head upstairs once Geralt rubs his forehead one too many times. They order a tub to the room, and Jaskier and Eskel both agree that Geralt should have the first bath. 

“Here,” Jaskier says and hands Geralt some of the chamomile oil to rub into his temples. He’d like to help but feels self-conscious with Eskel so near. Geralt’s eyes are half shut and his shoulders rigid as he disappears round the privacy screen. “Meditate as long as you need,” he calls after him.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts in reply.

Eskel sits on the ground, cleaning Scorpion’s tack. Jaskier pulls out Roach’s bridle. He doesn’t dare take it apart like Geralt does, but he can clean it by opening one buckle at a time.

“How’s he been today?” Eskel asks softly.

“Mostly fine I think,” Jaskier says, dipping his cloth back into the bowl of water. “It’s been a while since we’ve been around this many people. I’m surprised he’s held out this long.” 

“Mhm,” Eskel muses. “Had a good reason, I expect.”

“Yes. You should have seen his face when he saw your horse.” 

Eskel laughs. “I’m not talkin’ about me, Bard.” 

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say to that. They work quietly for a while, listening to the sounds of gentle water splashes and metal buckles knocking against the wooden floor. 

Eventually, Jaskier nods back towards the screen. “You don’t seem as affected?” 

Eskel shakes his head and looks sad. “No. I didn’t go through the last of the trials. Only Geralt. And only Geralt survived. His hair whitened, and his senses sharpened even more than ours.” 

“Oh”

Eskel shrugs. “He’s the fastest and most skilled swordsman we have. And he’s the proud achievement of the Witchers of old.” His voice lowers until it’s almost inaudible. “And when he muffled his screams of pain into his pillow at night, I snuck into his room and held his hand till he could fall asleep again.”

Roach’s saddle is finished, but it all at once feels too heavy to move. Jaskier’s muscles are frozen, and heartbreak burns at the corners of his eyes. 

“What can I do?” he asks.

For some reason, that makes Eskel laugh again. “Trust me, Jaskier, you’re doing more than enough,” he says warmly. “Although, if he gets too overwhelmed, a grounding touch can help a lot.” 

Geralt chooses that moment to round the screen again, towel slung low on his waist, and Jaskier thinks he might just die then and there from all the emotions he’s feeling. The tear and bruising of his abdomen have healed up nicely at least. 

“I reheated the water for you,” Geralt nods at Jaskier. “Tell me if it’s too warm.” 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. Geralt’s eyes are relaxed again, and they linger on the clean tack. Jaskier gets to his feet and dusts off his trousers. A hand touches his lightly – a whisper of heat against his skin.

“Thank _you_ ,” Geralt says, nodding to the bridle in Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier nods dumbly.

“Thank _you_ for being done, Geralt.” Eskel kicks Geralt’s foot. “I forgot how long you liked to bathe. Are you sure you didn’t accidentally grow up in the School of the Fish?” 

Geralt turns around and kicks back. “Sure you didn’t get thrown out of the Wolf School yourself? There’s something distinctly catty about you tonight.”

“Take that back you little shit,” Eskel says and snatches Geralt’s towel from around his waist to snap it at Geralt’s arse. Geralt’s arse that’s now bare and round and muscular and –

“Agh!” 

Geralt tackles Eskel to the ground again

“Get your balls out of my face, Wolf.” 

“They wouldn’t _be_ in your face if you hadn’t taken my towel.”

Jaskier flees to the tub before he embarrasses himself with further staring.

When he towels himself dry later, he finds someone has hung a clean shirt and braies over the screen. He puts them on. The shirt dwarfs him, and he takes a moment to himself to just smell the fabric. _Geralt_.

Back in the room, Jaskier sees his clothes cleaned and drying by the fireplace, and he touches his hand to Geralt’s shoulder in thanks. The Witcher is sharpening his swords but moves over for Jaskier to sit. It’s then that he notices a problem: there are only two beds. Geralt and he have shared countless times before when money has been tight – which is nearly always – but he feels like he doesn’t know what the rules are anymore

“I can take the floor?” he suggests to the room at large.

Eskel gets up from his bed and stretches. “We’re all boys here. We can share.” He starts stripping off without a care. “That is, I’ve had a long day so if I find either of you in this bed I’ll throw you out by the bollocks.” He disappears behind the screen, calling out, “Geralt makes an excellent pillow I’ll have you know.”

Jaskier knows. That’s the problem.

He sits down next to Geralt and stretches his legs out in front of him, turning his ankles this way and that to work out the aches from the day’s travel. Suddenly, the back of his thigh seizes, and he hisses.

“Jaskier?”

“Just a cramp,” he gasps. 

Geralt disappears from next to him, reappearing almost immediately with a bottle in his hand. “Straighten the leg.”

“I know,” he breathes but flinches away from doing so. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and then he is kneeling in front of Jaskier, careful hands moving his leg out straight and tipping his foot upwards to stretch the muscles. Geralt presses his thumb into the sole of Jaskier’s foot, and he yelps.

“ _Fucking tit_.” 

“You two alright?” Eskel calls from behind the screen. Jaskier’s face feels like it’s on fire.

“Fine.” Geralt calls back. He spills some oil onto his hands and then runs long, expert strokes up Jaskier’s leg from ankle to hip. Jaskier has helped the Witcher unknot himself from many a fight, but right now he can barely breathe as Geralt’s strong fingers glide easily over his skin. The man himself has his head bent almost in benediction, concentrating on every little tight spot he can find. He works in silence, and Jaskier is glad of the small sparks of pain that shoot up his leg when Geralt hits a sore spot, or else he would be in real danger of embarrassing himself beyond measure. The Witcher looks up at him, and his pupils seem to widen in the firelight. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. “Don’t want to be a bother.”

Geralt continues to look at him from under long eyelashes. “You’re not.” Their eyes hold for a few wonderful moments that Jaskier wishes could last forever, but then Geralt gives his leg a final caress, fingertips seeming to linger before he says, “How does it feel?”

Jaskier flexes his leg. “Better. Loads.” 

“Good,” Geralt says, but he doesn’t remove his hands. Instead, he runs his fingers almost absently against the back of Jaskier’s calf, thumb playing with coarse hairs. Jaskier is acutely aware of their positioning, and there’s a look in Geralt’s eyes that he doesn’t know how to process. It’s all so far outside the realm of Jaskier’s accepted possibilities. But Geralt is _looking_ at him. His heart stampedes in his chest, and he knows Geralt can hear it. He wants to reach out and touch back – wants to tuck Geralt’s white locks behind his ears and draw a path from his hair and down his cheek to his chin, guiding him closer until they share air with every breath.

“I…” Jaskier swallows once, twice.

Geralt sits up straighter. “Hmm?”

“I…” He can’t. He _can’t_ . Geralt’s thumb rubs in soothing motions over his leg, but he can’t _think_ , and he’s scared. What if he’s wrong? He is weak and wanting. Geralt couldn’t possibly…

“Feeling better?” Eskel asks as he trudges back to them, towelling his hair and letting the rest of himself hang loose for all the Gods’ creatures to see. 

And that’s that. Jaskier sees Geralt’s lid lower as he looks down and away, but then he packs away the oil and goes to wash his hands. Wondering if he’s done something wrong, Jaskier takes the opportunity to shuffle further onto the bed and under the thin covers; he lets his back rest against the wall and waits as Geralt steps back towards the bed holding a bundle in his arms. He quirks an eyebrow at the Witcher. 

“For you,” Geralt says, holding out the first objects for him to inspect. Jaskier sits up and accepts what looks to be a pair of furry boots. “They’re made with soft reindeer hide. The hairs are on the outside to help with traction in the snow. We’ll stuff some grass into them in the morning, and that should soak up any water that might get in. There’s some leg wraps too.” He clears his throat. “I’ll show you how to put them on tomorrow.” He takes the boots back and puts them on the floor, draping a giant cloak over the bedcovers. “Rabbit pelt. I couldn’t find you a better one, but should do until Kaer Morhen.”

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier chokes. “Thank you so much.” 

Geralt grunts, looking uncomfortable. “Don’t want you to be cold is all.” 

They stay like that for a count of three before Jaskier holds up the covers. Taking the hint, Geralt gets ready for bed and, _dear Gods_ , removes his shirt as well. The bed is not at all designed to fit two grown men let alone if one of them is a Witcher, but it’s far from the first time they’ve done this. Geralt lies facing the room with Jaskier behind him because Geralt sleeps like the dead, whereas Jaskier is liable to roll out the narrow bed if given half the chance. They shuffle about a little. Jaskier drapes the covers over them both, the cloak weighing it down pleasantly. 

“Night,” Eskel says and snuffs the lights out with a wave of his hand.

“Night,” Geralt grunts.

“Goodnight,” Jaskier murmurs, acutely aware of his hands and Geralt’s warmth and his feet and Geralt’s feet and the rise and fall of Geralt’s breathing. He won’t be able to sleep this way, but he knows he’ll need his strength for tomorrow, and so he turns onto his side and touches his forehead to Geralt’s shoulder, resting his arms along his back. 

Comforted by Geralt’s presence, Jaskier feels sleep tugging at his lids. As he feels himself slipping away, he hears what sounds like a snort from the other side of the room and an answering huff from the body next to him.

“Shut up, Eskel.” 

***

“Here.” 

Jaskier tears his eyes away from the sight of Geralt and Roach disappearing around a bend in the road to find Eskel handing him a chunk of bread and some dried jerky. 

They’ve stopped to rest for an hour so that Jaskier can get his breath back. The two Witchers keep insisting that he’s not slowing them down, but he can see their worried glances as they watch the snow fall thicker and faster. He pulls his hood up and is infinitely grateful for his new boots: his thighs shake from the deep snow, but at least his feet are dry and warm. There’s white all around them now, and he can barely tell treetop from mountain.

“Don’t worry,” Eskel continues, pulling his own hood up. “We’ll be there in a couple of hours, I promise you.” 

“Where did Geralt go?” he asks

“To check ahead. The path narrows somewhat, and we have a guest to look out for this year,” Eskel says with a kind smile. “Eat.”

They sit and eat together, watching as Scorpion rubs his rump up against a tree. 

“I wanted to say thank you,” Eskel says.

“Whatever for?”

“For all of your songs. I know you’re Geralt’s barker, but I don’t mind the kinder treatment when it trickles down to my own path.” 

Jaskier smiles for perhaps the first time today. “My pleasure. Honestly. The world is cruel enough on its own; there’s no need to abide ill-informed prejudice.”

“And for Geralt. You take good care of him.”

“He takes good care of me too,” Jaskier says softly.

Eskel laughs lightly. “That he does, Bard.” He turns abruptly more serious. “He used to come back so much thinner every winter. I think people are harder on him than me because of his mutations.” He claps Jaskier on the knee. “But these last years, he’s always returned to us relatively well fed and with a bunch of new tunes to hum under his breath.”

“He hums my music?”

“All the time. I’m looking forward to hearing them properly in person. I hope we can rely on your skills to bring light during the dark nights to come?” 

“Of cour–”

“We have to go!”

Hooves gallop around the bend, and they both turn to see Geralt and Roach. 

“Pack up,” Geralt says as he leaps off the mare’s back. He looks worried, and an icicle forms along Jaskier’s spine.

“Geralt? What’s wrong?”

“The pass is closed.”

“Igni?”

“Too late.”

Eskel swears colourfully and starts packing Scorpion’s bags again. “Can we turn around?”

“No. It’ll be snowed closed there as well.”

Jaskier swallows. “What about Yennefer? I know you don’t like portals, but –”

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t have any way of contacting her.” He locks eyes with Eskel, and something passes between them. 

“Are you sure?” Eskel asks, eyes flickering to Jaskier and back again.

“We can’t stay here. I trust Roach.” 

Eskel nods. “I trust Scorpion.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks worriedly. 

Geralt turns towards him, hair sprinkled with snowflakes and eyes kind but filled with worry. “The Witcher’s Trail.”

***

They make their way higher up the mountainside, walking one after the other as the passage narrows. They’ve dismounted so that the horses might balance themselves more easily, and their mounts follow along dutifully behind them. 

Ahead of them lies a path designed only for Witchers. 

“It was constructed to train the youngsters,” Eskel says as they duck past a decaying stone structure. “We call it _The Killer_.” 

They weave their way around what looks to be various obstacles of sorts: walls and stepping stones, terrifying spikes, and balancing ropes as thin as metal wire.

“Make sure you watch out for the –”

“Jaskier!” 

The ground trembles and groans, and Jaskier is thrown into the snow by an unseeable force. What sounds like a bolt of lightning slams to the earth, and he curls up under what can only by his Witcher. Daring to open his eyes, he finds Geralt over him with his hand raised to the sky. The sign of Quen glows golden and true around them, humming with energy and holding firm even as Geralt lowers his hands to pat at Jaskier.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, brows furred and eyes bright, bright yellow. 

Jaskier smiles tremulously. “How could I not be?” 

Beyond the protective shield, Jaskier can just about make out a boulder the size of a small house.

“All clear!” Eskel calls, and Geralt lets the sign fade. 

They get up and brush the snow off each other. Jaskier looks around and sighs when he sees Roach and Scorpion standing off to the side, unflappable as always. 

“Rockfalls. Part of the trial but also naturally occurring. We should go,” Eskel says.

Though shaken, Jaskier is keenly aware of how heavy the snow continues to fall, and he can barely see a horse’s length in front of himself. Geralt walks beside him now that the path has widened somewhat to accommodate the various other obstacles. Eventually, Eskel halts at what seems to be a completely empty track next to a cairn. 

“Wait here,” Geralt says, and Jaskier watches as the two Witchers begin clearing away the snow as fast as possible with controlled streams of Igni. As they melt away a section a yard or so ahead, Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat. They’re standing near a cliff’s edge.

“Geralt...Geralt, what’s happening?” he asks as he watches Eskel check Roach and Scorpion’s tack. 

His Witcher appears in front of him, clasping his shoulders. “Jaskier.” He points to the cliff’s edge. “This is _Cyfrwywen_ – The White Saddle – and _The Killer_ ’s final trial,” he says softly. “It’s a ridge in the mountain, and on the other side lies home.” 

“What? Geralt, that’s nothingness,” Jaskier says, staring at the cliff’s edge and the snow that is making everything around him white, white, white. His breath comes quick and fast when hands cup his face, turning him back towards yellow eyes.

“Jaskier. We can’t go back, and we can’t stay out here. I _promise_ you there’s ground on the other side. I’ve run this course myself. So has Eskel. So has Lambert. So has Vesemir.”

Jaskier’s hands are shaking, and he grasps at Geralt’s arms to steady himself. “Haven’t recruits died here?” 

“They have,” Geralt says, gaze unwavering. “But I have not. Not a single time have I fallen here. Not once.” 

“But there’s no way I could make it.”

Geralt smiles. “You won’t have to. Roach will do it for you.” 

At the sound of her name, Roach walks up to them. Jaskier takes in how her ears flick as she tries to rid them of the falling snow and how her coat has fluffed up considerably since Temeria. Her eyes, however, are bold and steady – every inch a Witcher’s mount.

He looks back at Geralt – Geralt whose thumb is stroking his cheek and whose eyes have not left his face.

“Okay,” he says.

“Good man.” 

They turn to Roach, and Geralt gives him a leg up into the saddle. They’re nearly of a height so he finds the stirrups easily. A glance to his right sees Eskel waiting atop Scorpion.

“Now, I know you’re an able horseman, but I want you to hold on to her mane as tight as you can. Don’t worry about the reins –”

“Wait, aren’t you getting on?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t want to risk it. She’s never done the jump with more than one person before, and between that and the packs…”

“But, I can’t –”

“Jaskier.” Geralt touches his hand. “Look at me.” 

Jaskier does.

“Do you trust me?” His Witcher asks. 

“Yes, but –”

“Do you trust _me_?”

Geralt’s hand squeezes his tightly. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “Yes, I do.”

“Time to go!” Eskel calls, but Geralt holds fast a moment longer.

“Hold on to Roach. Let her do the work. Eskel will go first, and Roach will follow Scorpion at her own pace. She knows what she’s doing. I trust her with my life, and therefore I trust her with you.” 

“What about you?”

“He did this jump still wet behind the ears and blindfolded, I wouldn’t worry about him,” Eskel calls.

“Those were two separate times.”

“Potato potahto. Come along, Bard.” 

Geralt squeezes his hand a final time and lets go. He leans in to whisper into Roach’s ear, and she noses at him in return before walking herself and Jaskier towards where Scorpion is waiting at the far end of the little aisle they’ve created. 

They turn to face The White Saddle. The gaping nothingness is still there – the other side made invisible by the heavy snowfall.

_A leap of faith._

_  
_ He glances off to the side where Geralt stands guard. 

“Ready?” Eskel asks him.

He strokes a hand down Roach’s neck and focuses on her unhurried breathing. 

“As I ever will be,” he says.

Eskel nods and clicks his tongue at Scorpion. The stallion leaps forward into a gallop. Jaskier grips Roach’s mane tight and watches as her ears perk forwards before she also takes off, hooves racing away atop the barren earth. In a breath, they’ve eaten up half of the distance, and in another breath, they’ve raced past Geralt. In front of him, Jaskier sees the cliff drawing closer and closer, and before he knows it Eskel and Scorpion are swallowed by the white. 

For a split second, he’s all alone. But then he hears Roach snort and feels her body contract beneath her as she prepares to jump. He holds his breath and does his best to follow her movements. Time seems to slow as her front hooves make contact with the ground, her hindquarters tuck in, and her back legs thunder against the final rock. Her front half lifts up, and she kicks off from the mountainside and into the frozen air.

They’re flying. 

Snowflakes lick his cheeks as Roach stretches out under him. He tightens his grip on her mane and rises in the stirrups to prepare for the landing: the landing that he trusts is there – that _Roach_ trusts is there. 

The brave mare angles downwards, and not a second later her hoofs slam onto solid ground. It jars through him, but he sits firm in the saddle as Roach gallops through the snow to stop next to Eskel and Scorpion, safe and sound. 

“ _Nice_ ,” the Witcher says, clapping his hand onto Jaskier’s shoulder. But Jaskier turns around anxiously, staring back into the white where Geralt is still waiting. 

“Two of a kind,” Eskel mutters before he whistles sharply three times. 

From out of the sky, his Witcher appears, landing into a forward roll and standing up without a scratch. 

Jaskier leaps off of Roach, kisses her nose in thanks for being such a _phenomenal_ horse, and tackles Geralt in a hug. He’s shaking like a leaf, but Geralt is his wall. Strong arms come around him, and a voice rumbles in his ear.

“ _Well done_ , Jaskier.”

***

The ancient keep rises out of the snowy wilderness as if carved straight from the mountains themselves. From its turrets and allures and throughout its commanding walls, the blue-grey stone carries the weight of a thousand songs. Though partially in ruin, the air around the structure ribbons with power.

This is Kaer Morhen.

As they start on the final hill leading up to the castle, Roach and Scorpion tug impatiently at their reins. Geralt gives the mare her head, and Jaskier holds on to the Witcher’s waist as Roach trots them up to the barbican. There, Eskel dismounts and thumps his fist against the portcullis. A second passes, and then a voice calls out.

“Piss off – you’re late.”

Jaskier feels Geralt sigh. “C’mon, Lambert. Don’t be like this. I brought you flowers and everything.” 

“You better have brought me an entire whorehouse, Pretty Boy, ‘cause that sorceress of yours has been here for two hours too long already.”

“When did she arrive?” 

“Two hours ago.”

Jaskier snickers, earning him a very gentle tap from Geralt’s elbow.

Eskel knocks harder. “You gonna open up or what?”

“What,” comes the grouchy voice.

Eskel turns back around. “Geralt, how did that poem of yours go again?”

“Which one?”

_Which one_? Jaskier’s eyebrows rise into his hairline.

“The one about Lambert being a prick,” Eskel says.

“Oh yeah. _Lambert, Lambert, what a prick_.”

Jaskier cackles loudly. 

“Who the fuck is that?” Lambert calls. “Is that the reason you’re late? _Did_ you bring me a whore?” 

The cold weather is a plausible excuse for the redness of Jaskier’s cheeks at least.

“Geralt brought his Bard,” Eskel says. “Get your own, you ugly cock.”

Geralt snorts and dismounts, steadying Jaskier in turn as he does the same. 

“Jaskier’s here? Well why the fuck didn’t you say so?” 

The portcullis begins to move. Once risen, a door opens, and out steps a Witcher. About the same height as Geralt, Lambert strides over to them with a swaggering step and crossed arms. His face holds none of Eskel’s good humour or Geralt’s calm, but there’s a mischief in his eyes that Jaskier thinks he can work with. That’s about all he gets to observe before the man leaps at the other two Witchers and brings all three of them crashing to the ground. 

He really should have expected it this time.

A hand grabs at his foot, and he’s tugged down into the snow and becomes part of the tussle. 

“ _Lambert_ , leave Jaskier alone.” Eskel hisses. 

There’s a knee in Jaskier’s face and an arm – Geralt’s – trying to get a hold of him.

“What, is he some delicate flower petal or something?” Lambert asks as they roll around – now more of a slow-moving pile than a pack of fighting wolves. 

“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Geralt grunts. “ _Ow_ , you twice damned son of a whore.”

“Or you’ll have to protect your little man?” 

Jaskier doesn’t really know what to do. There’s an ear near his face, and he’s pretty sure it’s Lambert’s. 

“No,” Geralt says, “or else he’ll start fighting back.” 

_I suppose that’s permission_ _granted_.

“What is he going to do? Bite me?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says and bites Lambert’s ear. 

“ _Son of a horse-ploughing hedge whore_!” 

***

The courtyard is in moderate disrepair, but Jaskier spots a grindstone, a workable smithy, and a well-kept stable. The horses always come first, so they head straight for the large timber structure to settle Roach and Scorpion. Surprisingly, the stable turns out to not have individual boxes. Whilst there’s a separate room for tack and feed, the rest of the area looks more like one large stall covered in straw. It’s warm and well-aired, and two other horses nicker in greeting as they enter. 

“My horse, D,” Lambert says, gesturing to a large blue roan mare. He appears entirely unaffected by the earlier roughhousing and had even clapped Jaskier on the shoulder when they’d gotten back up again and told him gruffly he was “alright”. 

“D?” Jaskier queries, helping Geralt untack Roach.

“Short for Drowner.”

“You named your horse _Drowner_ ?” He looks at the docile mare. “ _Why_?”

“She nearly drowned me.” Lambert shrugs, picking Scorpion’s hoof clean. “Pushed me into a river as a yearling.” 

“Can’t say you didn’t deserve it, sneaking up on her like that,” Geralt says.

There’s a brief scuffle where Roach and the last horse squeal and turn their hindquarters to each other, but it’s settled rather quickly by Roach delivering a swift kick to the other’s rump. 

“And that’s Vesemir’s horse. Bluebell. She’s relatively new and still sometimes tries to challenge Roach for top spot in the pecking order,” Eskel says.

“And who’s lowest?”

Geralt grins. “Lambert.”

“Fuck you very much too, Pretty Boy.”

***

Stomping their feet at a set of double doors to get rid of the snow, the group pushes through and is greeted by the high-ceilinged masonry that is the main hall. Jaskier spots what looks to be a kitchen in the back, but closer to them, sitting by a large fireplace, are an old man, a witch, and…

“Geralt!”

Immediately, Geralt lets go of his bags and drops to one knee. A whirlwind of white-blonde hair crashes into him.

“Ciri,” Geralt murmurs, wrapping his arms around his ward. “I’ve missed you so.” 

The girl nods her head where she’s tucked it against the Witcher’s neck, and she must whisper something to Geralt because his face softens in a way that suggests he’d do just about anything the young princess might ask of him. It’s an unreasonably attractive look on him, and Jaskier is seconds away from proposing then and there when he’s interrupted. 

“Julian.”

“Yennefer,” he says, turning to face the indomitable sorceress. Though lined with expensive fur, her choice of dress is no less stunning or revealing. With a plunging neckline, an expert tailor, and a look on her face that suggests she eats fools for breakfast, the effect is begrudgingly captivating. 

She greets Eskel before turning back to Jaskier.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says flatly.

“Aww, I didn’t know you cared,” he says.

“I don’t. I just can’t believe it.” She brings a finger up slowly and pokes his chest with the tip of a well-kept fingernail. “Are you sure you’re alive?” 

“Well, seeing as you’re here, I suppose this could be the underworld.” 

“With sweet talk like that I can see why you’re the wordsmith of the century.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Why are you so late?”

“Why is everyone saying we’re late? We never gave a ti–” he narrows his eyes at her. “Were you _worried_?” 

The sorceress gives him a look of complete disgust and turns her back to him.

“You _were_ ,” he crows. “We simply must talk about this.”

“Jaskier!” Ciri says, and before he knows it he’s being hugged about the waist by thin arms. He embraces her tightly, watching with an ache in his chest as Yennefer glides over to Geralt and kisses him on the cheek. Ciri’s arms contract around him, however, and when they separate he dips into a courtly bow. 

“Princess,” he says with a grin.

Delighted, Ciri grabs the thick wool of her skirts and drops into an elegant curtsy. “Mister Bard,” she giggles.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing for her hand. She rolls her eyes at him but nods, and he kisses it gallantly. “A pleasure to see you again, Your Highness.”

As Geralt introduces Ciri to Eskel, Jaskier is approached by an old Witcher with a weathered face and eyes that speak of a lifetime of herding cats. The man holds his hand out in greeting, and his grip is unsurprisingly solid.

“So you’re Geralt’s bard?” he asks, voice like an ancient oak tree.

“It’s my pleasure to be, yes,” Jaskier says, realising with a start that he’s shaking hands with what is essentially the only father Geralt has ever known. “Jaskier. I’m Jaskier.” 

“Vesemir,” the old Witcher says, narrowing his eyes at Jaskier. “You’ll do.” 

“I-I do? I mean, I will?” Jaskier clears his throat. “Do what?”

“Are you alright?” Ciri asks, touching his elbow. 

Yennefer snorts next to him. “Don’t worry, dear. This is just his first time speaking to a real person.”

“Kiss my shiny arse, your bitchiness,” Jaskier says.

“Enough muck-spouting,” Eskel says. “There’s a child present.”

“Yeah, Jaskier. Watch your fucking mouth,” Lambert calls.

“ _Lambert_ ,” Vesemir sighs.

“I don’t mind,” Ciri says. “And I’m not a child.”

Eskel quirks an eyebrow. “No? Then why are you so small?”

A hand touches the small of Jaskier’s back, and he turns to find Geralt watching him with a small smile. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen.”

***

Supper consists of hearty food, inspired conversation, and quite a remarkable display of deplorable table manners. There’s no standing on ceremony in the company of wolves, and he spots Ciri watching in horrified fascination as Lambert and Eskel tear meat off the bone with a ferocity to rival even the hardiest Skellige sailor.

“Oi, Pretty Boy, toss me a roll,” Lamber calls from down the table. 

“Wager,” Geralt says, not looking up from his food.

“Ten. One hand.”

“Done.”

Geralt hurtles a roll at Lambert who catches it neatly with his teeth, knocking his elbow into Vesemir in the process.

“That’s ten for you too, Lambert,” the Witcher huffs, and Geralt and Lambert proceed to get up from the benches and do ten one-handed push-ups. If Jaskier drops a potato in his lap whilst straining to watch, no one is rude enough to comment. 

“Me too!” Ciri says, and before Yennefer manages to protest, Eskel gently lobs a roll at Ciri that catches her smack in the middle of the face, sending her into a fit of giggles. 

“We have to work on your reflexes, Little One,” Eskel says. “And that’s ten for you too.” 

Ciri groans. “Must I really?”

“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish,” Geralt says, sitting back down opposite Jaskier and ruffling Ciri’s hair. 

“But she’ll do hers tomorrow,” Yennefer says.

Ciri looks like she wants to protest again, but Geralt raises an eyebrow at her. “If you want to hold a real sword by the end of the festive season, you’ll be doing more than ten push-ups, Cub.”

“May I at least use two hands?” 

Eskel chuckles. “If you manage all ten first try with proper form, I’ll let you take a swing at Lambert with my sword.” 

The rest of the meal passes in the same lively manner, and by its end, Jaskier is well and truly exhausted. At some point, Geralt swaps places with Eskel, and Jaskier can’t help but lean against his warm Witcher. So many winters he might have spent in this wonderful fashion had either he or Geralt dared to ask instead of assume.

“How are you doing?” Geralt asks.

“Mmm. Good,” Jaskier says.

“No pain after the journey?”

Jaskier shakes his head against Geralt’s shoulder, feeling the firm muscle under his cheek. 

“I must give Roach some apples tomorrow,” he murmurs.

“Too many apples are actually bad for horses. But I’m sure there are plenty of carrots in the kitchen,” Geralt says.

“Carrots, then.” 

“Hmm.”

“She’s a brave horse, your Roach.”

“True. But it’s not her I’m proud of today.”

Jaskier turns his face up to look at Geralt. “No?”

His Witcher’s eyes are half-lidded with contentment, and there’s a curiously vulnerable tilt to his mouth. “No.”

There’s something ludicrously kissable about this man, and Jaskier curses the day he grew up and acquired a sense of shame and a healthy understanding of realism. 

“Really, Ciri, let them be –” 

“Jaskier,” Ciri says, leaning across the table with the beseeching eyes so common to all children no matter how high or how low. For some reason, Yennefer looks profoundly exasperated. 

“Yes, Princess?” 

“Will you please sing us all a song before bed?”

“Honestly, Julian, you don’t have to.”

“Oh, but –”

“No, no,” Jaskier says, sitting up straight and relishing the continued feel of Geralt’s hand on his back for support. He presses into the touch. “Anything for you, darling.”

Sitting with his back to the fireplace and with his friends new and old around him, Jaskier looks to the lost princess and sings of mighty dragons and avenging queens. He takes some requests from her for songs she remembers from court, but when his fingers fumble on his lute it is Geralt who starts them all off to bed. 

Leaving the other Witchers to handle the washing up, Geralt shoulders their bags and leads the way up the winding staircase of the northern tower. The grandeur of Lettenhove boasts delicately carved wooden ceilings, gilded furnishings, and servants around every corner. The suffocating opulence had driven him out and away – first to university and then into the shining path of a wandering star that no learned tutor could ever chart for him. Letting his hand trace against the castle stone as they ascend, Jaskier wonders if the scenes of the past contain acts of mischief – feet running up and down the halls and nighttime escapades to the kitchens – or whether the tales of Geralt’s youth are as marred as the jagged surface of the keep’s inner walls. Their childhoods cannot compare, and where Jaskier’s coming of age had culminated in their own fated meeting, Geralt’s had thrust him into the maw of tragedy. The testimonies of the massacre that had torn apart a community, whittling it down to the precious few currently residing within these walls, are documented in the broken beams and unmortared blocks that lay scattered across the grounds. 

He hopes that he’s been able to soothe at least some of the pain of the past like Geralt has done for him.

“This is you,” Geralt says, setting their bags down at a door before gesturing across the hall. “Eskel is there, Lambert there, and Vesemir will be up another floor. I’m next to you.” 

“Thanks,” Jaskier says, pushing the door open to a cosy room complete with its own fireplace, double bed, and writing desk. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s mine, and –”

“Oh, but Geralt I don’t want to put you out of your room.”

“It’s fine, Jaskier,” Geralt says softly. “It’ll be warmer for you. There are more furs in the closet if you get cold. Or you could find me, and I’ll light the fire for –”

“I’m sure the Bard will manage, Wolf,” Yennefer says. “Come along now. Ciri is dead on her feet, and I really must speak with you.” She turns around and walks further up the stairs, clearly knowing where she’s going. 

“Night Jaskier,” Ciri says, throwing her arms around his waist again. He returns the hug tiredly but with no less affection, tugging at a tiny braid she’d made earlier whilst engrossed in his singing. 

“Sleep well, darling,” he says, swallowing thickly as he watches the girl drag Geralt away and up to follow his little family. 

***

For the next two weeks, Jaskier settles into a new routine where constant travel and contracts are exchanged for lovingly organised chaos. The younger Witchers all have their duties it seems. Sometimes he finds one of them working in the stables, armoury, or kitchen, and sometimes he finds all three outside rebuilding the keep stone by stone. Jaskier finds himself roped into organising the library with Vesemir, sorting out alchemy ingredients with Lambert, and looking after the horses with Eskel and Geralt. He has little to no idea what Yennefer does in her room at the top of the tower, nor does he know what happens when Geralt joins her. One day, Yennefer had found him in a particularly morose mood after the sorceress had sent Geralt and Ciri off hunting with a kiss to each of their cheeks; she had taken one look at him sitting on one of the parapets and had walked right past him, saying “No. I didn’t leave court life behind only to hold the hands of more men as they try to discover what is taking such a flowery shit under their very own noses.” 

In the evenings he tries to write, but whilst new melodies beg his fingers to play, the words are skittish, hiding their truths behind pillars of doubt. Only when the White Wolf is near do they dare populate his wordscape, but they are for him alone. When the others ask him to play after supper, then, he brings out the tested and tried but can at least comfort in the simple joy of an audience determined to like him. 

Sometimes, however, _Jaskier_ gets to be the audience. Despite his silver-spooned upbringing, Jaskier prides himself to be someone who enjoys the finer things in life and simplicity both, be it intricately brocaded doublets or washing his Witcher’s hair after a long day. He is still a master of all seven liberal arts for a reason, though, and takes his craft quite seriously. 

At least he does until – one stormy night when Ciri and Vesemir have long since retired – he’s presented with a group of Witchers all drunk off their tits on White Gull. 

Jaskier and Yennefer are a little into their cups as well, having shared a bottle of fine Touissant wine she had portalled home for, and they’re both giggling at the sight of Eskel and Lambert trying to dress Lil’Bleater in one of Vesemir’s braies. Geralt is lying on the floor, head on top of Jaskier’s shoe and face being licked by the goat. 

“Eskel, come get your horny lover,” he groans, batting at Lil’Bleater. He’s not as sloshed as the rest but still doesn’t seem inclined to be anything but horizontal. 

“Wait,” Eskel says, belching loudly and collapsing onto Lambert in a fit of laughter. 

“Tha’s disguise – disgusting,” Lambert says before he grabs the poor goat and kisses her on the lips.

Yennefer cackles and knocks her shoulder against Jaskier, causing him to spill wine onto the floor and Geralt’s face. 

“Sorry, darling,” he giggles.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Geralt says, not even moving.

“ _I’m_ disguising,” Lambert declares, getting to his feet and stumbling over to a barrel of ice they’re melting in front of the fire. He groans and then dunks his whole head into the water. Jaskier can hear him yelling inside the barrel before he hoists himself out of it again, flinging ice-cold water in everyone’s faces. 

Jaskier downs his cup and stands up with one foot on the bench.

“ _There once was a Witcher so thick,_

_He gave er’thing he saw a good lick,_

_And though he’s kind in his way,_

_It’s oft true what they say,_

_That Lambert, Lambert, what a prick_.”

The others collapse into peals of laughter, and Lil’Bleater brays into Geralt’s face. 

“Enough of this,” Lambert calls. “Bard, sit.” 

“What’s happ’ning?” Eskel asks. 

“Song!” Lambert says.

“Apologies, my lads, but I’m not sure I can play my lute right now,” Jaskier says, nearly missing the bench as he sits down. 

“Not you. You sit,” Lambert directs. “Geralt, up. C’mon.”

“Why?” Geralt groans from the ground.

“Weren’t you mumbling earlier that your peacocking ain’t working? C’mon, time to tweet.” 

“Huh?” Jaskier says, but Yennefer cackles again beside him.

“Yes, come on Geralt, dear,” she says. 

“Aaagh!” Geralt yells as he gets to his feet. He grabs Eskel, and the two shuffle over to dunk their heads in ice water as well. Done, Geralt takes his shirt off to dry himself and tosses the shirt into Eskel’s face.

“Mmm,” Yennefer says.

“Mmm,” he agrees. 

The three Witchers shuffle into a sloppy line with their arms around each other’s shoulders. 

“Who starts it?” Geralt asks.

“You,” Lambert says.

“I think Eskel,” Geralt says.

“Nah. You remember it better,” Eskel says.

“I’ll start it,” Lambert says.

“No, I’ll start it,” Geralt says, jumping slightly when Lambert slaps him on the arse.

Jaskier watches as they all straighten up the best they can and start thumping a rhythm with their feet. Suddenly, Geralt locks eyes with him.

And then he _sings_.

“ _Yonder, Wolf, the Path runs truly,_ ” he calls, voice deep, powerful, and surprisingly melodic. Jaskier recognises it immediately as the work song he’s heard the witchers hum whilst repairing the keep.

Eskel and Lambert join reply with the chorus, voices booming and without finesse.

“ _Wey hey! The Path runs truly._ ”

Geralt smirks.

“ _Yonder, Wolf, the Path runs truly –_ ”

“ _Truly ‘til the Contract’s won._ ”

Jaskier watches with gleeful astonishment as Geralt’s baritone steers Eskel and Lambert’s singing into shape. 

_“Gayly goes the lass who you love dearly_

_Wey hey! The Path runs truly._

_Gayly goes the lass who you ploughed cheer-ly –_

_Truly ‘til the Contract’s won._

_Ho!_

_Yonder, Wolf, the Path runs truly._

_Wey hey! The Path runs truly._

_Yonder, Wolf, the Path runs truly –_

_Truly ‘til the Contract’s won._

_Hither comes the lad you’d like to keep – oh!_

_Wey hey! The Path runs truly._

_Sweetly comes the lad you’d like to keep – oh!_

_Truly ‘til the Contract’s won._

_Ho!_

_Yonder, Wolf, the Path runs truly._

_Wey hey! The Path runs truly._

_Yonder, Wolf, the Path runs truly –_

_Truly ‘til the Contract’s won._

_Thrust your sword and treat them right – oh!_

_Wey hey! The Path runs truly._

_Run through the rakes who treat them ill – oh!_

_Truly ‘til the Contract’s won._

_Ho!_

_Yonder, Wolf, the Path runs truly._

_Wey hey! The Path runs truly._

_Yonder, Wolf, the Path runs truly –_

_Truly ‘til the Contract’s won._

_Lass and Laddie are thine now wholly._

_Wey hey! The Path runs truly._

_Guard their hearts, and do so wholly._

_Truly, now the Contract’s won.”_

By the end, Jaskier and Yennefer are singing along as well, and the sounds of the storm outside has been drowned out by the sheer strength of their joy. Geralt collapses next to Jaskier and grins at something Eskel says, eyes shining in the firelight. It’s nothing at all like Oxenfurt, and he’s never felt more at home.

***

“Careful,” Geralt mumbles, steadying Ciri when she overbalances on the rope he has her standing on. The girl has a wooden sword in her hand, and Jaskier sits on the stone steps, watching as she tries to complete the drills Geralt has set for her.

“Parry and fade.”

It’s the last day of Saovine, and Eskel and Lambert are out hunting for the Midinváerne’s feast that Ciri has insisted on having. Geralt and Jaskier have spent the last evenings in the kitchens trying to recreate a honey cake Jaskier can remember having at a Cintran banquet. Watching Geralt in the kitchen is a joy, and, if he’s being honest with himself, he misses Geralt. Kaer Morhen has been all things welcoming and wonderful, but one on one time with his best friend has been difficult to come by between the Witchers, Yennefer, and Ciri. For all that time with just the two of them is a kind of perfect agony, he longs to sleep in the same space as his Witcher, wash his hair without anyone wondering why he’s in Geralt’s room, and talk to him about everything and nothing uninterrupted. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, her heels clicking on the limestone. She’s swapped her customary dress for trousers, and her long, dark hair falls in a pretty braid down her shoulder. 

“Hi Yen,” Ciri says.

“Concentrate,” Geralt says, poking the girl in the side to make her laugh. 

“We have to go now,” Yennefer says.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asks.

“Nothing of your concern, Bard,” Yennefer says without so much as a glance his way.

Geralt frowns. “You’ve found one?” 

In reply, Yennefer magics a portal into being, and it hums menacingly next to Jaskier. “We don’t have much time. I don’t want it getting away.” 

“Do we have to portal?”

“ _My_ wish, Geralt.” 

Jaskier expects Geralt to snark back at that, but his Witcher just has an odd look of regret on his face. 

“Of course. Let me get my swords,” he says, grabbing said swords from where they’re leaning against Jaskier’s legs. 

“W-when will you be back?” Jaskier asks him instead of what he wants to ask.

“Can’t say, but we’ll do our best to be back before the feast,” Geralt says apologetically, hand reaching out towards Jaskiers in the briefest – warmest – of touches. “Look after Ciri?”

He just about manages to get a hold of himself before he tries to grab onto Geralt’s gambeson to stop him from leaving. “Of course.”

“Bye, dear,” Yennefer says to Ciri before she disappears into the portal with Geralt. As quickly as it had appeared, the portal hums and collapses in on itself, leaving only the faint traces of gooseberries and steel behind. 

Jaskier is a man of his word, and he watches over Ciri as she dutifully finishes her training, even going so far as to correcting her footwork and grip a little, and does not to think about how quickly Geralt had dropped everything for Yennefer. Afterwards, he takes the little princess inside for some food; they study history together until the early afternoon, and he does not think about how easily Yennefer comports herself around Geralt – capable and desirous and everything he’s not. At some point, Eskel and Lambert return with a magnificent stag that they all gather in the kitchen to help prepare. As he lets Ciri correct him on how to peel potatoes, he does not think about how perfect a pair of parents Geralt and Yennefer make.

Because Geralt is his friend. Because Yennefer is his friend too. 

“Jaskier, you’re not listening to me.”

“Sorry, darling.”

Because Ciri, who has lost so much and has the whole world on her tiny shoulders, deserves to be loved and protected by the two strongest people he knows. 

By late afternoon, his denial has dried up, and he asks Ciri for her help with a project. He’s not proud of himself when he asks her if she knows where her guardians have disappeared off to.

“I don’t know,” she says, sitting perfectly still as Jaskier combs her hair. “But Yen mentioned something about a djinn.”

_A djinn_?

Memories of the first time he met Yennefer swim to the surface of his mind and tread water next to the knowledge of what ties her together with Geralt. Dread drips down his spine, but before he gets a chance to wallow, a portal opens right in front of them and spits out Yennefer and a partially frozen Geralt. 

***

Jaskier hurries into the bathing chamber with a stack of towels and some oils. A fire has been lit in the hearth, and Geralt is out cold in the tub, steam rising from the water. 

“How is he?” he asks Yennefer. 

She takes one look at him and rises from her seat next to the tub. “Exhaustion and the freezing cold seem to have gotten the better of him, but he should be fine once he warms up.”

“Why is he exhausted? What were you doing?”

She glares at him. “ _That_ , Bard, is private.” 

“Not when he’s hurt!”

“You really must calm down. He went for a little swim, and then he fought a creature in the icy wilderness for me. Now, I shall leave him in your capable hands,” she says as she makes to leave.

Jaskier can’t believe her.

“Are you really just going to leave him like this? This is _your_ fault. I thought you cared for him,” he says, glaring right back at her.

Yennefer, however, just pauses in the doorway on her way out, looking at Jaskier over her shoulder “Trust me, Bard, I’m doing you a favour.” She sighs. “You _really_ should entertain the thought of using that brain of yours. Might I suggest you consider investing in emotional intelligence,” she says before closing the door behind her and leaving him alone with Geralt.

“ _Fucking cock_ ,” he says with feeling.

Geralt lies motionlessly in the water as Jaskier pours oils onto a cloth and sets about washing him. His skin is warm to the touch thank the Gods, and his chest rises and falls steadily. He drags the cloth across firm muscles and scarred skin beloved and dear. He washes between Geralt’s fingers and toes, beneath his arms, down his back, and the insides of his thighs and backs of his knees, checking for wounds and reassuring himself that his Witcher is whole and here. 

He touches a fresh, unscented cloth to Geralt’s face, tenderly washing away sweat and dirt. Somewhere between one breath and the next, he drags the cloth carefully under one eye and finds himself staring into darling yellow eyes. Usually more of a metallic gold in colour, they’re now sunlight itself. 

“Hello, you,” he murmurs. 

“Hmm.”

“How long have you been awake?” he asks, dipping the cloth into the water again to wash underneath the other eye.

“A few minutes,” Geralt says lowly, eyes not leaving Jaskier’s though they lower to half-mast.

“You could have said. I was worried.”

“Was afraid you’d stop.”

Jaskier makes a noise stuck somewhere between a choke and a laugh. “And miss a chance to rub more chamomile onto your lovely bottom?”

A rather lovely dusting of pink settles across Geralt’s cheeks, and Jaskier has to busy himself with picking out his hair oils before he loses control of himself entirely. He finds Geralt’s favourite – a light and subtle oil of orange blossom. 

“Lean forward, please,” he says.

Geralt leans forward and dunks his head under the water, re-emerging rather gracelessly to shake his hair out of his eyes, splashing Jaskier in the process. 

_“Geralt_ ,” he complains.

“Hmm,” his Witcher sounds. 

Jaskier huffs and goes about running his fingers through Geralt’s hair, rubbing oil into it with as much care as he can. He reapplies more oil to his hands and encourages Geralt to lie back against the tub again, resting his neck against a rolled-up towel. 

In the last year, the foundation of their friendship has shifted onto more solid ground. Their Path is good and new, greener and brighter. And yet, Jaskier is terrified. Their waymarkers are gone, and one of these days, Jaskier will lose control.

“Just relax, darling,” he says as he starts to massage his Witcher’s scalp and tries to calm his own pounding heart.

He knows Geralt cares for him now. But Geralt doesn’t know the pain that comes with it. Because the more Geralt gives the more Jaskier wants. What was before a safe impossibility is now a mere fork in the road. For oh how much more seems now within reach but how much more does he now stand to lose? There is a noise at the back of his mind’s eye: something is scratching at the door. He has lost his way before – pushed too hard and presumed too much. With every scene of Geralt with Ciri or Geralt in the kitchens or Geralt as he is right now, reclined and baring his neck as Jaskier washes his hair, the day draws nearer. Jaskier will slip up and lead them down one of the paths, but where will they end up? The Coast? Or another Mountain?

“Thank you for watching Ciri,” Geralt mumbles.

“Of course,” Jaskier breathes as he begins to rinse Geralt’s hair with a cup. “Anything for Ciri. Anything for your child, Geralt.” 

“I wish she _was_ my child,” Geralt says.

Jaskier pauses in his pouring. “She _is_ your child, darling, what are you talking about?”

“I’m a sorry replacement for her real parents.”

“You’re not meant to replace them. You’re meant to care for Ciri as her new adopted father. Which you are and which you are doing perfectly.” Jaskier frowns and rests his hands on Geralt’s shoulders. “What’s brought this on?”

Geralt touches his wolf medallion. “Today. Yen and I had to disappear on such short notice. Both of us. Left Ciri alone.” He glances over his shoulder at Jaskier, an old hurt in his eyes. “Surely abandonment is fundamental parental mistake number one?” 

Jaskier bites his tongue against asking the question he’s no right to ask. “You didn’t abandon her, though. You left her with me and your Witchers.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re not meant to do this alone, Geralt. You have Yennefer. You have Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir,” he says, leaning his forehead against Geralt’s wet shoulder, skin so close he could kiss it. “And you have me. Always.”

Ever so gently, Geralt knocks the side of his head against Jaskier’s, and they sit like that together until Geralt’s insecurities loosen their grip and they can both get ready for supper.

***

The Midinváerne’s Feast looks divine, smells delicious, and turns to ash on Jaskier’s tongue. The deer is roasted to perfection and the bread freshly baked, but he can’t stop staring at Yennefer. She keeps glancing at Geralt like she has a secret when the Witcher isn’t looking, and Jaskier’s stomach churns. He smiles at Ciri when she looks at him and tries to eat what’s on his plate and compliment the Witchers on their cooking. 

When all the food is gone and Lambert cannot move from his horizontal position on the floor, Ciri insists it’s time to exchange gifts. Though not a normal tradition for the Witchers, they’ve all as one agreed that this celebration is important to Ciri and is thus important to them. One by one the wolves reveal what they’ve been secretly working on when no one could find them. Ciri is the delighted recipient of a splendid cloak of white wolf hide. A glance sees Yennefer receive a similar cloak in a black hide. The wolves had been hunted and felled by Geralt, the hides tanned by Lambert, and the cloaks sewn by Eskel. To one another they give various books and runes for their swords they’ve picked up on the Path. Yennefer gives Ciri a lovely dress, but the princess seems just as delighted by the swallow brooch Jaskier bought for her in Ard Carraigh. 

“Here,” Geralt says to Jaskier and hands Jaskier a beautiful white winter cloak same as Ciri’s. 

_“Geralt_ ,” he breathes. “Thank you so much. Did you make this one too?”

Geralt nods and holds the back of his neck somewhat sheepishly. 

“You like it?”

“I _adore_ it,” Jaskier gushes, stroking his hand across the thick pelt the colour of fallen snow. 

“Oh,” he says, digging into his pocket. “For you.” 

He hands Geralt an item wrapped in fabric. 

Geralt looks at him curiously before he unwraps his gift, revealing a locket. His lips turn upwards into a smile, small but genuine. “Is this Roach?” he asks, gesturing to the galloping horse on the front.

“Mhm. Open it,” Jaskier says, holding his breath.

Eyebrow raised, Geralt opens the locket to reveal a curl of white-blonde hair. Immediately, his eyes find Ciri who is admiring a knife she got from Vesemir. 

“So that you’ll always have her with you no matter where you are on the Path,” Jaskier says softly.

Geralt doesn’t say anything to him, but his eyes shine like starlight. He briefly leans his forehead against Jaskier’s own. For a moment, they breathe the same air, and it’s all he’s ever wanted. 

A cough sounds, and they look up to find Yennefer standing in front of them with something in her hand.

“I wish you well,” she says, dropping the item into Geralt’s hand. “A well-deserved thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” she finishes gently.

In Geralt’s hand is another locket or, more accurately, a medallion. It is on the smaller side, made of silver, and features an engraving of a magnificent stag. How curious that they should both think to get him the same gift. 

“ _Yen_.”

Jaskier looks up at Geralt’s face and is stunned by what he sees. If there was starlight in his eyes when he looked upon Jaskier’s gift, there are whole constellations now. Lower lip trembling uncharacteristically and face awestruck.

“Surprised you, did I, Wolf?” Yennefer smiles softly, eyes big and lilac and shining with affection for Geralt.

“Is this –”

“It is.”

There’s a pause where Geralt seems to teeter on the edge of something. He blinks several times and then covers his face with his hands.

“How did you find one?” he croaks.

Yennefer’s smile turns knife-sharp. “I think you’ll find that there are a colossal amount of terrible people who owe me a terrible amount of colossal favours.”

Abruptly, Geralt stands and flees the hall, hand covering his eyes and medallions clutched in his fist. He’s followed swiftly by Yennefer, leaving Jaskier on the bench alone with the white pelt in his hands. 

“What happened?” Ciri asks, tapping nervously at the brooch he gave her. 

He wants to throw up.

Eskel catches his eye and nods towards the stairs.

He smiles tremulously at Ciri. “I’ll go find out, shall I?”

***

Their voices travel clearly down the empty hallway from Geralt’s room. Odd that they’ve retreated to where Jaskier now sleeps to do whatever it is that they’re doing. The door is ajar, and he almost doesn’t want to approach it.

“I need to tell him,” he hears Geralt say, voice rough like gravel.

“Must you?” Yennefer huffs.

“Please, Yen.”

“ _Fine,_ but do tell him not to _talk_ to me about it.”

There’s a pause, and Jaskier leans his cheek against the cold stone wall and swallows around a lump in his throat.

“I do still care for you, Geralt.”

“And I you.”

There’s a pressure behind his eyes, and he breathes in deep through his nose.

“I hope you use the medallion _well_ or I shan’t be best pleased,” Yennefer says, layers of history in her voice that entirely escape him. 

“I will,” Geralt murmurs. “Yen, I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’ll stay here for Imbolc.”

_What?_

“I had planned to. I need to speak to him first.”

There is a lump in his throat the size of a drowner’s heart. He feels the urge to run – to get away from the pain. The pass is long frozen over. But if he’s not wanted...he doesn’t want to stay here and hear their plans carry them over into the skaldic realm of heroic love made for Sorceresses and Monster Slayers. 

Geralt is staying behind. Jaskier will be asked to leave come the new savaed – to travel alone whilst Geralt stays here with his little family. He had _planned_ to. 

_He can’t have_.

Jaskier can’t believe Geralt has planned to leave him behind. He _cannot_. 

Leaning forward, he catches a glimpse of Geralt by the fireside. The flames soften everything. Geralt’s hair is charmingly tousled, his angular jawline so masculine and dear, and his cotton shirt is loose and worn. Oh, how he loves him. The feeling fills him until he’s fit to burst, and it is too much. Geralt runs a hand through his hair — the hair that Jaskier had washed mere hours ago — and all at once he knows he will not go quietly. 

He is not eighteen anymore. He no longer longs to follow a handsome Witcher around lead by his lust more than anything else. Two decades on and he is a man in love. Jaskier is forty, and Yennefer will live to be a hundred times that at least. But Yennefer can wait. He doesn’t care about the wretched medallion or where they were earlier or what they needed a djinn for. Jaskier is forty, and he will not listen to the scratching at the door anymore. Goodbye to all the doubt. Geralt promised to never push him away again. Geralt holds him when they sleep on the Path, protecting him from the cold and the wild. Geralt buys him new shoes so that he can keep up. Geralt apologises, and Geralt forgives. Geralt made him a cloak, the same as Yennefer and Ciri, and it’s enough.

_Do you trust me?_

Two decades they’ve had together, and two decades he’s known this man. His bones ache with want, but his skin recalls the touch of his Witcher’s hand on his lower back and of his forehead where it rested against Jaskier. He takes a deep breath, and the scents of leather and steel settle in his lungs like stalwart faith. 

_Do you trust_ me _?_

He’s standing in front of the precipice again, and there is no Roach to carry him across to safety. But Geralt has not left him helpless now either.

_Yes._

Whatever his heart may bleed, they are friends first and foremost. 

_Yes, of course I do_.

He barrels through the door.

“Jaskier.” Geralt turns to him as he pushes his way in. “Are you alright?”

“Can I stay with you come Imbolc too?” His voice is shakier than he’d like. Geralt’s eyebrows rise in shock.

“How much did you hear?” Yennefer asks, hands on her hips.

“Enough to know when someone is plotting without me.” 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

He ignores her, attention focused solely on Geralt whose shoulders are hunched but whose eyes have not left his even once. “I want to stay for Imbolc.”

Yennefer sighs. “I think you boys need to talk. I’ll watch Ciri.” She pecks Geralt’s cheek and breezes out of the room, leaving only the faint scent of lilac and gooseberry behind. 

Geralt takes a breath as if to speak, but Jaskier cuts him off. He fears he’ll show too much of his hand, but he can’t help it. He trusts that Geralt will not resent him for it.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Jaskier –”

“No! Bollocks to you and bollocks to your plan. I’m not as young as I was, I know. And I know you didn’t ask for it, but I have given you the best years of my life, and I will not be left behind or asked to leave. I know I’ve slowed – that it was my fault we had to jump the pass.” Despite himself, his voice breaks. “And I know I’ll only continue to walk slower with time. But Geralt, you’re — you’re my whole life. And I don’t know what you did earlier with Yennefer. And I know I don’t have a real claim. But I ask that you’ll let me stay with you until the end of my days. Because by Melitele, Geralt, I do not want to be without you.”

Silence reigns, and Geralt’s face looks carved from marble. Jaskier hears his own heavy breathing and the frantic jig of his heart. Geralt must hear it too. The fire crackles. He’s an open wound, and courage bleeds out in aching pulses. _This far but no further_ , it says. Geralt is unreadable, and when the floorboards creak as he turns away to gaze into the fireplace, Jaskier’s legs threaten to buckle beneath him.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says.

“Please don’t say that,” Jaskier croaks.

“I am sorry it has not been enough. I tried, but it has not been enough.”

Jaskier sits on the bed before he collapses entirely. At least now Geralt will have to throw him out bodily to get rid of him. But then Geralt turns around to look at him, and his face is nothing but open; there is an emotion hidden behind his eyes that Jaskier cannot fathom. Does not dare to.

When next he speaks, Geralt’s voice is like the earth itself – deep and rich and every inch a mountain made man. 

“It’s a hard thing,” he says, “It’s a hard thing to want for yourself – and harder yet to act on it – when a near century has told you not to. That your path will be lonely and your wants never met. To want, then, is cruel. To want is to not have. To meet the needs of others is easy in comparison. It’s a hard thing to want when everyone shows you you should not.” Geralt’s eyes trail from the fire and over to Jaskier. “But to want is also a choice. To act on it, at least. And what are near eighty lonely years compared to two decades with Jaskier? Nothing. They are nothing at all.”

“What – what do you mean?”

Geralt swallows, and his brows furrow. He never lets words tumble out of his mouth this way, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do. 

“I mean that I have wanted for so long and have chosen not to act. That it has been hard and that not wanting is easier. For how could you want me?” He swallows again. “You said once after the Mountain that the twenty years you have given me – half of your life so far – must mean nothing to me. That they must pass in the blink of an eye.”

“Geralt I am sorry. It was cruel of me. I know it is not true. You don’t have to –“

“But I do. I do have to.” Geralt’s eyes flash yellow in the firelight. They are determined and his stance is almost challenging. But his arms are not crossed, and he does not stop talking. “Because it seems despite my actions the past year that you still think me capable of leaving you behind. Of letting you go. The twenty years you have been with me have not been easy. Not on the part of me that I keep under iron guard. But on everything else? I have felt every moment. At first I was not aware. But I see now that with you it is safe to have wants. You see them like no one else has and do not even know it. When contracts are scarce and I am hungry you play the night through in every tavern to provide. When – fuck – when I am weary you wash my fucking hair. When I am sad you make me laugh. And...” 

Here, he falters. 

Jaskier is silent – is too afraid to speak or even move a muscle. Afraid that the moment will end. If it ends before it is done he will scream. He will howl. He will –

“And when I am cruel you forgive. When I push you away because I am too much a coward to face the impossible – that you might _wish_ to stay – you do not let me. It’s a hard thing to want for yourself, but you have made it easy. Even if you never desire me the same way I do you, I know my wants are safe with you. For you are my best friend first. Above everything else. 

Jaskier can’t breathe. Everything is too much and not enough. He needs air in his lungs. He needs to compose. He needs to leap twelve feet into the air. He needs Geralt. Geralt who sees him. Geralt who knows him. Geralt who – the Gods be blessed – wants him. Geralt who –

“Jaskier.”

Geralt who is kneeling down in front of him, cupping the back of his neck, and touching their foreheads together. Geralt whose scent fills his nose. Geralt who is air. 

“I am not going to ask you to leave. I was never going to ask you to leave. The plan is to stay for Imbolc to train and look after Ciri. I was going to ask you to stay – am asking you to stay. You are not a burden. Yes, I have noticed you are a bit slower than at eighteen. And yes we stop to rest more frequently now than perhaps we used to. And yes... part of the reason we are staying for Imbolc is that it will do us both some good to rest. To be with...with family. But, dear Bard, you are not a burden.” Geralt’s thumb brushes whisper-soft across Jaskier’s cheek. “And as the years rest on your shoulders and in your tread, they will not push me away. Or make me leave you behind. Buying you boots and giving you my cloak when you are cold – these aren’t meant to make you feel lesser or useless. They are meant to ease – to give you comfort. And I truly do not mind. I have nowhere else I would rather be. The Path is there always. It will not disappear because we let ourselves live. And, really, you are not even old.”

Jaskier laughs, quick and strangled. He grasps Geralt’s arms. He must. He must touch something. 

“But when...” Geralt’s voice is softer now. “When you are too old for the cold hard ground and the campfire and the endless road...then we will find a cottage by the coast –“

Jaskier inhales sharply. 

“A cottage by the coast, a proper bed, a hearth, and we will live like that for – for the rest of your days.”

And curse it all but it cannot be that simple – everything he was afraid to hope for cannot have been thought of, accounted for, and _known_. 

“But what of Ciri? And the prophecy? And the danger? We could die in battle or whilst doing something else entirely and not at all heroic.”

“We could. And maybe we will die protecting Ciri for I know you won’t leave her to face this alone either. Or we might be struck by lightning. Or have our heads kicked in by Roach because we’ve pushed her too hard one day. But either way, my choice is the same. Together. Whatever it is we will do it together.” He pauses. “It’s a hard thing to let yourself want, but I do want. And what I want is to have you stay. Even if we remain as friends and nothing else. After my child, it is _you_ – your life is the most precious. I choose you. And I hope that’s what you want too.”

And now Jaskier really must speak before he explodes with the force of everything he is feeling. He cups Geralt’s cheeks for good measure and looks him right in the eye.

“My Witcher, you deserve far more credit than you allow yourself. Your actions have brought me joy. Do bring me joy. And I have seen them for what they are – just not for _all_ that they are. I have been scared – so scared – that my heart would not be welcome. Not to the full extent of what I feel for you. And, oh, my dear heart how much it is that I feel for you. Every sentiment you’ve voiced – and _thank you_ for doing so, darling – every sentiment I return. Everything you want I want also.” 

He is crying, but it does not matter. Geralt is wiping away the tears on his cheeks, and that, too, is everything. 

“I mean it, darling. Everything. The life, the death, the in-between, and...and if you mean also that you want me in your bed and only me and to kiss me and only me under the stars by the campfire and for there to be an _us_ – like an ours-is-a-marriage-of-equals us – then _yes_ , Geralt, that is what I want. I hear you. I see you. I choose you also. ” He sniffles and knows he is grinning like a fool. 

“Hmm.” Geralt sounds – not a grunt or huff but a loss for words. His eyes are round as dinner plates. 

Jaskier strokes his cheek – his dear, dear face.

“Now, for Mellitele’s sake, kiss me.”

And Geralt shuffles closer – so close that he can feel their chests touch with every breath, can feel the warmth of Geralt’s torso between his legs, can feel his nose nudging carefully against Jaskier’s – and then lips are on his, soft and slightly off-centre. They pull back, and there’s a finger tilting Jaskier’s chin, and he moves, and _there_ – they kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss. 

All around him is Geralt – his scent, his touch, his taste on Jaskier’s tongue. Jaskier wants to _live_ inside of Geralt – wants to curl around his Witcher’s heart and care for it to the end of his days.

“Darling, come here,” he says, tugging the man closer and closer until he’s almost pulling him bodily onto the bed. “Please.”

Geralt follows him onto the soft mattress and settles above him, elbows on either side of Jaskier’s head and fingers carding through his hair. Jaskier reaches out, hand hovering over Geralt’s chest. At Geralt’s nod, he touches his hand to the Witcher’s shirt, feeling his heartbeat beneath his fingertips and stroking a line down his front. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles, kissing Jaskier’s jawline and dragging his lips down to whisper into his throat. 

Heat floods Jaskier from where Geralt’s lips touch and all the way to the tips of his toes.

“ _Oh_ , darl–mph,” he says, pulling Geralt up to kiss him again. He runs his hand up and down Geralt’s stomach, moaning softly as Geralt’s hands in turn seek downwards to rub gently against the base of his spine. Shivers race and tingle in his veins when Geralt trails kisses down his neck and nibbles on his collarbone. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare, _oh._ ”

Lips trace and breathe on his skin, trailing upwards once more until a voice purrs in his ear. 

“ _And should my heart one day be still – my bones no breath to sigh_ –” 

Jaskier sobs helplessly. “No, you _can’t_.”

His Witcher presses kisses to each of his cheeks before whispering velvet-soft into his other ear.

“ _Let this sight be my final thrill – my love until I die_.”

“ _Gods_ , Geralt, you can’t do that,” he cries, limbs wrapping around neck and waist and lips seeking lips again. 

Geralt chuckles. “Why?”

“Because you’re perfect and you’re mine and you’re _quoting verse at me_ and _why_ ,” he thumps his hand against Geralt’s shoulder, “do you know elder poetry?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, touching their foreheads together again. “Are you not a poet? And did we not meet in the valley of the elves?”

“Take your shirt off _right now_.”

Shirts and shoes come off, tossed to the ground without thought. And then Geralt’s chest is bare to him, and he is allowed to touch and to kiss and to give tender caress to scars long healed – skin he has touched before to wash and mend but that he now gets to adore and feel against his own. Skin that is pale and imperfect. And to think that he’s here and so is Geralt, and he’s not running off afraid even when Jaskier realises he’s been saying all this out loud.

Geralt’s chest rumbles again, a low and amused noise.

“Laugh if you please. I’m not ashamed. I never dreamt… _Gods_ , it’s been years, Geralt. To be allowed to be here like this with you and lie here like this with you and touch like this with you… You can’t expect me not to feel it.” He barks out a laugh. “You can’t expect me not to be smug. You can’t expect me not to _say_ it.”

“I won’t stop you.”

Jaskier swallows. “Good. Good. I’ve wanted this for so long. _This_ –” he tightens his arms around Geralt’s waist, “not just…” He glances to the messy bed and blushes. “Not that I don’t want that! Just not only.” 

A kiss is pressed to his cheek.

“But what do you want now, dear Bard?” Geralt speaks into Jaskier’s cheek. 

His voice is laced with unhurried affection, but heat runs through Jaskier in a wave from his ear and down his spine, settling low in his stomach. He presses his face against Geralt’s, touching his nose and lips to Geralt’s cheek and feeling him returning the gesture.

“I want – I want you to kiss me again. I want us both in bed without a shred of clothing or decency left. I want to lie with you with nothing between us but air and for even that to be gone for how close we are holding each other. I want to look and touch and do to you everything that I have been feeling – to kiss every scar and run my hands through your hair not to clean it but to clutch you even closer. I want to be inside you or you inside me and for us to be so intertwined that if the world around us ended and we were buried like that they wouldn’t be able to tell us apart.”

Geralt’s hand is solid against his side, and he presses yet another sweet kiss to his cheek. “Dramatic.”

He laughs. “Yes! How could I not be? I’m a wordsmith: if I don’t word it, is it even real? I only say what I feel.” 

Geralt hums and slips his hand into the back of Jaskier’s breeches, stroking a scalding path across his lower back like a brand.

“ _Fuck_. C’mon.” Jaskier says, tugging at the drawstrings of Geralt’s trousers as Geralt does the same to him. Hands clasp and drag and then they are bare to each other in the firelight. He knows he hasn’t Geralt’s muscle mass nor his athleticism, but as he beckons Geralt to lie over him once again, hard abdomen brushing against his own softer stomach, he has never felt safer. 

Geralt is gazing straight at him. For once, there seems to be no undercurrent of stress or worry in his feline eyes. They’re narrowed with pleasure focused entirely on Jaskier.

“And you?” he asks Geralt. “Tell me what you want?”

“You,” Geralt says, running his fingers down Jaskier’s side and making him shiver.

“Darling, I mean it,” he says, pressing down on the Witcher’s hand with his own where it rests by his hip. “Tell me what you want.”

“You. In my life. Your pleasures. Your sorrows. Your joys. Your voice in my ear and your touch on my skin.” He smiles softly and lets out a single breath of laughter. “Your body so intertwined with mine that if the world around us ended they wouldn’t be able to tell us apart.”

Jaskier pulls his Witcher down into a bruising kiss. “Geralt of Rivia,” he chokes out, “I–” He breaks off and swallows around the shape of his love. 

_How to say it?_

How does he word or sentence with a neat beginning, middle, and end what Geralt means to him?

“I love you,” Geralt says. Simple and true. 

He shakes his head. “Say it again,” he whimpers, tucking his head into Geralt’s neck and wrapping his legs around his Witcher’s waist. Their hips touch together, and they both moan.

“I love you,” Geralt says, rocking against him – pressing their bodies together and into the bed.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Keep going. _Please,_ Geralt.”

Geralt does not stop. He whispers it into Jaskier’s chest, his armpit, and his inner thigh. He flips them over and runs the words down the line of Jaskier’s spine with his fingertips, swallowing his moans as he helps Jaskier straddle him. 

“I love you,” Geralt speaks into his hairline when a soft press to Jaskier’s lower back encourages him to lie on his Witcher’s chest as they grind together. 

“I love you,” Geralt laughs into the air when Jaskier nearly falls out of bed fumbling for some oil on the bedside table, hands large and careful on his hips. 

“I love you,” Geralt moans into his mouth when Jaskier’s fingers are clever and find that spot deep inside him that makes him wrap his muscled thighs tight around Jaskier’s waist and kiss him hard. 

Their hands fumble between them, unfamiliar with these versions of themselves, but then they nuzzle at each other’s noses, pause for heated kisses, and pant and sigh into hallowed skin. They ask “Can I?” and “Are you sure?” and then Jaskier pushes against Geralt and they are one and then they say “Move, please” and “Is this okay?” and the answers to all their questions are “Yes,” and “Yes,” and “Yes.”

***

Wind howls through the ancient keep. The room is cold, but Jaskier lies sweaty, aching, and toe-curlingly happy next to Geralt. His skin tingles still from Geralt’s touch, and he longs to wake the man to love him again.

And then there's something else.

An urge nips at his heels. It’s a familiar brainworm – the wriggliest kind. Looping around inside his head, it starts growing and then glowing until Jaskier feels like he’s fit to burst. He wants, and now – he glances at Geralt’s sleeping face smushed into his side, thick arms holding him fast around his waist – now he has no reason to resist. 

He reaches for the scrap parchment, quill, and ink lying on the windowsill. The curtain is pulled back still, and it bathes them both in the blue warmth of the moon. By the light of her gentle peace, he’ll free that final piece that has been scratching at his throat for the last savaeds. 

It is sometime between the sundown and sunup of Midinváerne’s Eve – that time of night when the hours float without direction and demand – and Jaskier sits in the arms of his beloved and writes.

A new day yawns over Jaskier’s score, and he blinks in the Yuletide sun. Harbouring arms tighten around him, and he’s folded into the warm embrace of his lover. 

“Good morning, darling.”

“M’rning,” Geralt mumbles into Jaskier’s hip. “Mmm. I can still feel you from yesterday.”

Jaskier groans and buries his face in Geralt’s hair. “Don’t _say_ that. We’ll never get out of bed.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Jaskier strokes a finger down his beloved’s cheek, tucking silver locks behind a weatherbeaten ear. 

Geralt’s nose flares.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“I wrote.”

At this, Geralt sits up.

“You wrote? Well done.”

“Thanks,” he says, suddenly nervous. “And I wanted to say sorry for last night.”

Geralt frowns and kisses Jaskier’s hair. 

“Why? It was a decent performance. Would happily toss a coin your way again.”

“Brute,” Jaskier says and slaps the back of his hand at Geralt’s chest. It doesn’t even move an inch. “I meant that I struggled to say something extremely important that you gave me the phenomenal privilege and pleasure of hearing over and over again.” 

“I love you.”

“Yes, that.”

“No,” Geralt says and kisses him with morning breath and in the cold light of day. “ _I love you_.”

“So,” Jaskier says hoarsely, “I wrote you a song. And in it I’ve quite simply laid out everything I feel for you in gruelling and melodramatic detail. And – and I even made it one of those slow and quiet ones that you seem to like more.” 

Geralt kisses him again and holds his gaze. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

“No, Geralt, I do. I do.” He picks up his lute from where it rested against his knee. “I’ve been swallowing down my l-love for you for so long I think this is the only way I can get it to come out.”

“You and I both know,” Geralt says as he gentles his hand from Jaskier’s cheek and down to his chin, “that love is an action and not a word.”

“Yes. But I think you above all people deserve to hear it.”

He rearranges them so that he’s sitting up against the headboard and has Geralt leaning back against his knee. They’re both still naked as the day they were born, but Geralt merely casts an Igni towards the fireplace and wraps his hand around Jaskier’s ankle.

Resting the neck of his lute in his left hand and caressing the strings ever so slightly with his right, he clears his throat one last time and sings.

_“I’m walking the Path, love._

_My soles are wearing thin, love;_

_My aches and pains are yours,_

_Love, and yours are mine to keep._

_The Path is fanged and taloned, love._

_Comforts scarce and yearned for, love._

_But comforts lost are gained –_

_Your Path and mine are one._

_Come sit awhile with me, love._

_Sit by the hearth and be, love,_

_In forest or by sea,_

_Love; our fire will never die._

_Live inside where my heart beats pure;_

_Your swords lay down – my arms be your cure._

_Anything from me adjure –_

_Your Path and mine are one._

_Let us to our feet now, love._

_The howl is wild and free, love._

_We are mortal you and me,_

_Love – one day fore’er to sleep._

_So now’s the day and ours the life –_

_Ours the dawn aft every strife._

_Destiny was kind, love –_

_Your Path and mine are one._

_One day my walk will slow, love._

_Time’s not friend or foe, love._

_I am not afraid, ‘tis true,_

_Love, for I will be with you._

_Please lay me in the warm earth, love._

_But follow not too soon, my love._

_The years are mine to give –_

_Your Path and mine are one._

_Weep not too long for me, love,_

_For one day you will see, love,_

_A Path that’s paved by Fate,_

_Love, beckoning for you._

_Be not afraid to walk alone;_

_You’ll soon find that your soul is known._

_Your heart beats like my own –_

_Your Path and mine are one._

_We’re walking the Path, love._

_Let us now to the Coast, love._

_To never part again,_

_Love, for you are mine to keep._

_The Path we made is ours, love,_

_Of starlight over bowers, love._

_Our song eternally –_

_Your Path and mine are one._ ”

The last of the notes linger, and he looks at the back of Geralt’s head and feels the grip he has about his foot. His chest feels lighter than air. 

“So you see, darling, I love you,” he says and feels three steps from the sky.

Geralt’s hand grasps his thigh, and he presses a fierce kiss to Jaskier’s knee, shoulders bent as if in prayer. 

“You,” he says roughly, “You…”

“Love, it’s alright.”

Geralt shakes his head, kisses his knee one more time, and gets out of bed. In all his naked glory, he wanders over to his desk to fetch something. When he returns, he kneels by the bed and holds his hand out to Jaskier. 

Leaning his lute against the headboard, he shuffles down the bed and sits as directed until his legs hang over the edge of the bed. Geralt takes his hand and presses it to his lips before holding out the medallion Yennefer had given him, the stag staring proudly outwards from the silver face.

“This,” his voice rasps, “is my gift from Yen. She gave it to me as thanks because...because yesterday, she asked me to come with her to capture a djinn.”

Geralt’s eyes are wide and vulnerable, and Jaskier’s heart constricts in his chest for him.

“A djinn?”

“Yes. I tied our destinies together to save her, but she doesn’t want that. She never did. So when she heard of another djinn, it was her wish that I accompany her and right the wrong I had caused.”

“And did you?”

“I did. Destiny has no hold over us now.”

Jaskier grins ruefully. “What about Ciri?”

“Ciri is Ciri, and she will have us pirouetting around her thumb for the rest of eternity.”

“Mmm,” Jaskier hums and kisses Geralt. “And what of this reward then?”

Geralt brushes a thumb across the medallion. 

“This is a Hart of the Everlasting,” he murmurs, low enough that Jaskier can feel it in his bones. “It is said there are only ten of these in all of the world.”

He cups Jaskier’s cheek, twin suns shining upon all they touch.

“The Harts were made by elves who had fallen in love with humans. Humans of shorter life than they.”

_Oh_.

“I would have you with me as long as possible, and even that will never be enough. The Harts have been fabled to double the normal lifespan of the wearer.” Geralt drops the medallion into his lap and brings his other hand to his face as well. “Jaskier, listen to me. It is _entirely up to you_. I don’t want to presume. That you’ve given your years to me is a gift I will never take for granted again. No matter what you choose, I promise you this: for as long as there is breath in me I will love you – and I will have you know it.”

And Melitele bless this man but he loves him. 

He hands Geralt back the medallion and picks up the locket from where it rests on the nightstand. Holding it out and placing it around Geralt’s neck, he recites, “You cannot possess me for I belong to myself.”

Geralt makes a noise caught between a sob and a laugh, thumbs gentling the area beneath Jaskier’s eyes. 

“Jaskier –”

“But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give. You cannot command me for I am a free person. But I shall serve you when you are in need and be your strength when you have none.”

He grabs Geralt by the locket and pulls him up onto the bed. There, they sit together, legs folded around each other and touching from hip to chest.

“And the honeycomb shall taste sweeter coming from my hand, and I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry out at night and the eyes into which I smile in the morning,” he says and kisses Geralt fiercely, breathing in the scent of sleep, sex, and Geralt.

With scarred hands that tremble, Geralt holds up the Hart to Jaskier and, at Jaskier’s nod, slips it over his head to rest around his neck. His Witcher clears his throat and says, “I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink of my cup. I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care.”

They lean forward until their noses brush.

“I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine,” Geralt continues. “I shall not slander you, nor you me. I _shall honour you above all others_ , and when we quarrel we shall do so in private and tell no strangers our grievances.”

They lock eyes.

“This is my wedding vow to you,” Geralt says, eyes fathomless and true.

“This,” Jaskier says, “is the marriage of equals.”

They sit for a while in the warmth of their love – the scratch of morning stubble, the feel of leg hair against tender inner thighs, and the metallic clink of their medallions touching with each rise and fall of their chests.

It is a crisp morning on the first day of Yule, and Jaskier feels alive, loved, and…

“Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“Make love to me again.”

He feels Geralt grin against his cheek.

“Of course,” his Witcher says. “Who am I to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting?”

**Author's Note:**

> I want to wish a very Happy Holiday Season and Happy New Year to my Secret Santa giftee @captnsunshine. You've been such a sport and have answered all of my questions like a champ. Thank you for your patience as you have waited for this monster of a fic I ended up writing. I hope I've lived up to your expectations, and I hope I've fulfilled most of your requests <3 
> 
> Also big thank you to TheWitcherSecretSanta2020 for having organised all of this. It's been an amazing experience that got me back into writing again, and I can't thank you enough for the time and effort your Hansa have put into this. I wish you all the best <3
> 
> Finally, an entirely priceless thank you to my best friend in the entire world - my spacebae - for, despite not even being in the Witcher fandom, having read every single word of this fic (some of them multiple times), for giving me support and feedback, and for validating me throughout this 1.5 month project. You are my rock, my religion, my Roach.
> 
> General Disclaimer: Obviously I own none of the characters or any of the world etc and so forth your honour please don't sue me I am very small and tired and have no money.
> 
> My Geralt + story world is a blend between the Netflix show and The Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt. Two quests from the game (Cabaret and The Last Wish) are mentioned/referenced in this fic.
> 
> The drinking song the Witchers sing is my re-write of the sea shanty "Bully in the Alley".
> 
> The song Jaskier sings to Geralt at the end is set to the tune of "Land o' the Leal" as performed by Kathryn Joseph.
> 
> The wedding vows Jaskier and Geralt say are, of course, the lovely Celtic Wedding vows attributed to Morgan Llywelyn.
> 
> Come chat to me on tumblr! Same [username](https://bunnyofnegativeeuphoria.tumblr.com/) and same fandom brain. 
> 
> UPDATE! There is ART! My lovely Secret Santa Giftee has made three lovely pieces for this fic <3 And you can find them [here](https://captnsunshine.tumblr.com/post/639433036089442304/1-of-scenes-from-three-steps-from-the-sky-by-the), [here](https://captnsunshine.tumblr.com/post/639620840652242944/2-of-scenes-from-three-steps-from-the-sky-by-the), and [here](https://captnsunshine.tumblr.com/post/639707580858548224/3-of-scenes-from-three-steps-from-the-sky-by-the) :3
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and I wish you all the best in 2021 <3


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